No Gracious Words We Hear
by TesubCalle
Summary: Complete. Set during and immediately after the events of 'Grace Period'. 1st half from the perspective of Special Agent Paula Cassidy. 2nd half is mainly reactions of the team, family members and OCs.
1. Letters

**A/N:** **SPOILERS for '_Minimum Security_'; '_Heart Break_'; '_Mind Games_' and '_Grace Period_'. My take on Paula Cassidy. Hope you enjoy.**

**NCIS belongs to everyone who can legally lay claim to them. I don't own them; I'm just borrowing them for the time being.**

* * *

**No Gracious Words We Hear**

I remember the first letter I ever received. I was eight, and I vividly recall the excitement and glee that made my fingers shake as I greedily tore into the envelope that formally bore _my_ name, Miss Paula Cassidy.

This wasn't something for Mom and Dad; not for my older brother, Brian (who had a subscription to _Boys' Life_), and certainly not for my two younger sisters, Jennifer and Stephanie, who were barely out of diapers. This was mine, and somehow made me feel a little more grown-up.

My favorite teacher had sent it on the occasion of my birthday; a card and a neatly-handwritten letter. She'd promised to write to me when she moved to New York City from Simi Valley, California, and I was thrilled she'd kept that promise.

Over the next ten years or so, we actually maintained a regular correspondence. It was this pen-pal relationship that fuelled my love of letter-writing. In the age of e-mail, cell phones, text-messaging and even video conferencing, penmanship is fast becoming a lost art, and mailing a handwritten letter passé.

I prefer sending something through 'snail mail', even when that system is sluggish. When I was stationed at Gitmo, (notoriously slow mail service!) I eschewed modern technology and persisted in shooting off letters to family and friends. There's something so much more personal, tactile and enduring about a letter. Letters you can treasure forever. They're keepsakes for your grandchildren to pore over in the attic on a rainy afternoon long after you're gone.

I love the feel of a good-quality pen scrolling across good-quality paper. You never feel the same level of connectedness to an e-mail that you would to a physical letter. I still feel an echo of the thrill and excitement I felt as a giddy eight-year-old when there's a letter addressed to me in my mailbox. Some things never change.

I remember the utter sense of violation I felt four years ago when confronted by Agent Jethro Gibbs about letters I'd written that were found on a dead colleague. He actually threatened me with a court order when I was rightfully indignant about having him poke through my private correspondences to my family.

After all this time, I think what really upset me the most was that Agent Gibbs didn't trust me, and refused to let me in.

"_We're in the same Agency; we're not on the same team,"_ he told me after I asked to be treated like a member of the team, not as a suspect. It was like a slap in the face.

I've now been an NCIS Agent for nearly ten years, and a damned good one, if I do say so, myself... except during my run-ins with Gibbs. I don't relish being chewed out by anyone, especially when the perceived offence is a minor one, or completely non-existent.

I honestly don't know how agents DiNozzo and McGee have dealt with him all this time... don't know how the late, great Agent Caitlin Todd ever figured leaving behind her Secret Service duty to work with Gibbs was a brilliant career move.

Sometimes it feels like I'm destined to run into Gibbs every time I feel I've attained some level of success in my career. I can't get too proud of myself, because Agent Gibbs will be just around the corner, ready to knock me off my self-made pedestal.

As NCIS Agent Afloat the _U.S.S. Kennedy_, the sole black mark against me came when Gibbs and team were investigating the suspicious death of one Commander Dornan. His chest literally blew up – flames and all – in his hospital bed at Bethesda, where he'd undergone open-heart surgery. Lab tech, Abby Sciuto was convinced this wasn't an accident. She went so far as to call it murder.

A young Ensign, Evan Hayes, who'd verbally threatened the commander in the past, went U.A. just prior to the Commander's death. He'd also appeared on Bethesda hospital security footage the day of Dornan's explosive end. There had been continuous conflict between Hayes and Dornan. It seems Hayes just couldn't hack the abuse Commander Dornan was dishing out, and eventually committed suicide-by-cop. Agent Todd fired the fatal shot, an event that left her quite shaken and riddled with guilt.

I did not officially investigate the verbal threat Hayes issued to Dornan when it occurred. That meant the personnel issues that apparently lead to the boy's emotional breakdown did not make it into any report. My feeling was that Commander Dornan had been the instigator; riding the poor kid harder than was professionally appropriate. I explained to Gibbs that Dornan had assured me he would 'handle' the situation. Gibbs reacted to this revelation as if I'd broken one of his cardinal rules. There's something about getting a dressing-down from Agent Gibbs that one isn't too eager to repeat, and fortunes definitely aren't in my favor when it comes to this.

My third and most significant encounter with our cheery Agent Gibbs came a short while after Kate was killed. I was on Temporary Additional Duty for the week while Gibbs was given the unenviable task of getting a killer he put away years ago to reveal the location of his still-missing victims' remains.

Blunder number one was to have the mug of this killer, Kyle Thomas Boone, up on the screen that morning. If looks could kill, I'd be six feet under. Gibbs gave me a withering glare when Tony identified me as the one who'd put Boone's image up there. I just thought I was being helpful. Evidently not. Gibbs doesn't need help, it seems; certainly not mine. _Never_ mine.

We were on location at the abandoned Boone family farm when, for the briefest of moments, I actually entertained the thought that Gibbs 'needed' me. Turns out he only 'needed' me because I was the only one small enough to squeeze through the filthy chimney. But in retrospect, I don't know what was worse: having Tony gleefully rattle off my pertinent stats ("34-36-34; 120 pounds") as Gibbs measured me, or being covered with soot, grime and dead bird droppings while I dug for evidence. I finally pulled a book of some kind down from behind the flue. The pictures inside nearly made me retch. Even more disturbing was the fact that there were five more victims than the twenty-two Boone claimed he'd killed.

What we couldn't have guessed at the time was that Boone's own lawyer, Adam O'Neill, was responsible for four of the unidentified ones, and that they were _recent_ victims. That clue came almost too late. So, while McGee was making that leap of logic before anyone else was, I was taking a shovel to the head, courtesy O'Neill, copy-cat serial killer.

Every so often, I go over in my mind how I made it through those critical, desperate hours. I should have been dead; my tongue cut from my mouth; a heart sliced into my back, like the rest of those murdered women.

Abby, the Goth-scientist, doesn't believe in luck, and I've never put much stock in prayer, so I don't know if it was Lady Luck or God, or whatever higher intelligence you believe in. But I have to admit the powers that be must have granted me some ounce of saving grace; some stay of execution on that day. I got out of the clutches of that twisted killer and survived with nothing more than a sliced-up shoulder, slight concussion and a generous collection of bumps and bruises.

I've wondered, sometimes, what Gibbs would have thought if O'Neill had succeeded in killing me. Would Gibbs have felt remorse for the way he'd treated me in the past? Would he have regretted how quickly he'd dismissed my feelings and my professional experience? Would he have been just as determined to nail O'Neill as he had been determined to nail Ari Haswari after Kate was killed? I don't know. I've become resigned to the fact that there is nothing I can do that will ever earn me Gibbs' trust; nothing that will ever endear me to him.

Gibbs never really spoke to me after my brush with death. I spent the rest of what should have been my T.A.D., recovering from my injuries. After that, it was on to greener pastures when I was assigned to the Pentagon. I heard that a Mossad officer was filling the void Kate left behind on Gibbs' team: 'Ziva David'. Well, better her, than me.

I eagerly accepted the challenge of heading my own team of NCIS agents. Rick Hall and James Nelson call me 'Boss', and we share a very easy camaraderie. Jimmy's the grinning newly-wed, and Rick is loving the life of the carefree and unattached bachelor.

My team dynamic is so different from what I've observed when working with Gibbs' team. Gibbs is authoritarian. He's smacked heads; Tony's, usually. Rick and Jimmy joke around, but they're _adults_ compared to Tony. They don't ever require a daily dose of corrective physical abuse.

For the past year, our cases have run the gamut from the serious to the downright silly. Just last weekend, we fielded a call from a guy who thought his _dog_ was a Taliban sympathizer. We all had a good laugh about it.

At the end of the day, I go home with a real sense of satisfaction and accomplishment. Me, Jim and Rick work well together. We're a _team._ We trust each other with our lives each and every day we're on the job together. It's everything I've ever wanted from the NCIS.

We weren't thrilled about working the Hotline two weekends in a row, but we're still considered one of the newer teams; i.e., low on the totem pole, so we're expected to pick up the slack and work the crappy shifts.

So, here we are, waiting to make contact with an anonymous source claiming to have information about a potential terrorist attack. I can think of better ways to spend my Sundays, but when it comes to matters of national security, my personal wants have to take a back seat.

Rick and Jim are watching the passers-by from their vantage point of a table at a sidewalk café. We've been waiting for three hours and our source still hasn't shown. Rick wants to know if we should call it a day, but I'm not quite ready to pack it in yet. I'm watching from the parked car with the surveillance camera, and I interrupt Rick when my cell phone rings. It's our anonymous source. I instantly snap to attention.

"Where are you?" I ask. The caller claims he's near. He insists on a meeting inside a building close by, and he rattles off the address. I protest that we prefer a meeting on the street, but my caller fears that he's being watched by people 'everywhere'. I'm not about to jeopardize the safety of this confidential source. If he really does have something valuable to tell us, I can't risk having him seen by his supposed enemies, which by extension would make them _our_ enemies, as well.

Rick and Jim spot a bearded man making his way purposefully towards the chosen rendezvous. He's trying to be inconspicuous, but looks rather silly in his knitted hat and sunglasses. I snap off a few shots of the man. He enters the building, which appears to be some kind of store.

"How do you want us to handle this?" Rick asks, cautiously.

"Pick him up," I reply, assuring them I'll be right behind. I put the car in gear, drive up a few more yards and put it into park. I make sure I have my weapon with me; one can never be too prepared when walking into unfamiliar territory.


	2. Bomb

Memory is a strange thing. Was it really just an hour ago that I was sitting in the car, chatting away with Jim and Rick as we waited?

I remember I got out and closed the car door behind me, fully intending to find that my team had the anonymous tipster already willing to reveal what he knew.

Instead, all hell broke loose. The noise of the slammed car door was instantly answered by the deafening blast of an explosion. The store-front door and windows were shattered, and I felt myself twisting; flying backwards in a shock-wave of heat and flying debris.

_Jimmy and Rick are dead! _

It is the only thought I'm able to process. My burns, cuts and scrapes barely register. I don't even know when my arm was bandaged.

Another NCIS team has arrived on the scene. Well, of course they have. When something like this involves our own people, we want jurisdiction. But whose team? The silver hair beneath his navy blue cap; the determined, lined face and squared shoulders are unmistakeable. It's Leroy Jethro Gibbs. For a moment, my heart sinks. He's the last person I want to see. Somehow, I just know he'll find a way to find fault with me and hold me responsible, as if I'm not doing a good enough job of that, myself. But in a strange way, I'm also relieved. In spite of our differences, he's one of NCIS' best.

The smoke has cleared, but my mind has not. What went wrong? How could this have happened?

I finally muster the courage to approach the burned-out store. Everything I see is gray and colorless, in spite of the bright afternoon sun streaming through the two now-empty window frames and the empty doorway. Water is still falling in steady droplets from the destroyed ceiling from when emergency fire crews responded to the blast.

I'm trailing Agent McGee when I overhear a familiar voice say: "Why blow yourself up in an empty store?"

Now, instead of gray, I'm seeing red.

Tony DiNozzo.

How _dare_ he?! How _dare he take the deaths of my men so lightly?_

"It wasn't _empty_, Tony!" I declare fiercely, feeling myself starting to unravel. Can't he _see?_ Can't he _see_ the mangled bodies that were once Rick Hall and James Nelson?! I gulp back another angry retort as I glance around the sooty room.

_Oh, Jimmy... _Lifeless and propped against one of the brick walls... The left side of his face has been hideously deformed by the blast. Heat and shrapnel have burnt and shredded away skin, hair and clothing.

_Who's going to tell Amy about this? They've only been married two months_...

_And Rick..._Rick's inert body is lying in the corner on the dirty, debris-covered floor; eyes closed, weapon still clutched in his right hand. A yellow #20 evidence marker sits near the top of his head.

In the middle of the room lie the charred, dismembered remains of the one responsible for all this. I'm not stupid. This third 'body' here belongs to that 'anonymous' caller. The bastard. He _lured_ us here, and blew himself up! Now two fine, wonderful men, _my _men, _my team -_ are dead!

_Did they know? Did they sense what was about to happen when they walked into this trap?_

I can't contain my emotions any longer, and I know I'm rapidly losing control. _Rick and Jim are dead! It's my fault! My fault! I sent them in here to their deaths. _In futility and disbelief, I put my hand to my head, trying to hold back my tears. I circle around aimlessly. I barely hear McGee whisper that this dreaded place had recently been rented out to a non-profit group.

"My fault...my fault..." the words tumble from my trembling lips. Tony tries to reassure me that it's not, but he wasn't _here_ when it happened! He could never feel the burden of guilt as heavily as I feel it. Rick and Jim were _my _responsibility! They trusted me, and I let them down.

"_I've killed my team!_" I'm sobbing aloud now, and Gibbs gently guides me away from the scene, urging me to take my emotional outburst outside. I don't want to be touched by anyone right now, and I leave on my own steam and head for one of the NCIS trucks.

Gibbs has followed me, and I instantly bristle at his presence. I can anticipate why he's here: he's going to tell me exactly what I did wrong, and he's going to make sure I never forget it.

"I don't need a lecture from you right now, Gibbs; I really don't." I am aghast that I sound so anguished; voice quavering and uncontrolled. Weak. Incapable. Insecure. It's not how I want to be perceived by this man. I sit down in resignation, but I really just want to crawl into a hole and die.

Instead of words of admonition, Gibbs passes me a tissue. I don't expect a gesture of compassion from him, and it threatens to undo me further. I accept it in spite of myself, and dab at my streaming face and my runny nose.

He asks me about the anonymous call we received earlier that day.

So, it really is all business with him, after all. He wasn't really interested in how I was doing. He just wants to get on with the investigation. Well, that's fine. I tell him all I know, and I berate myself aloud this time.

"Oh, I should have gone in with those guys!" I cry in frustration, standing up in a rush of emotion.

"Yeah, then you'd be dead, too," Gibbs points out.

Fine. But would he be feeling the same way if it had been _his_ team in there, all burned and bloodied by an incendiary device filled with ball-bearings and nails? I have a tough time believing he would.

"You wanna know the difference Paula?" Gibbs leans in closer and looks me straight in the eye: "It's that I wouldn't stop to grieve until I put the bastards responsible for this into the ground."

His words resonate within me. Part of me wants retribution. I want justice for Jim and Rick.

The other part of me is dying inside. I am a leader without a team. What agent in their right mind would ever want to be under my command after this?

I consider Gibbs' stern words about the 'bastards' that planned this bombing for a moment. At least _one_ of them is dead, anyway. He's in pieces on the floor in that burned-out room. Was he working with anyone else? I don't know. I don't know what to think any more. But I do know that the investigation has only just begun, and they'd better not try to keep me away from it.


	3. Interrogation

_**A/N: Sorry for the delay. There is still more to come. I promise I've not abandoned this one!**_

_Yazeed Fahad_. The bastard now has a name. He was chapter president of the so-called 'Muslim Coalition for Peace'. Two of his buddies in this coalition identified him from his recovered head, which was surprisingly intact. They claim Fahad was there to paint the walls. _Paint the walls indeed. With what, the blood of us Western infidels?_

I only wish I was in the room when Officer Ziva David recovered it. _I _would have kicked it like it was a football on the 50-yard line with a field-goal between me and the Vince Lombardi Trophy.

Of course, we take these two friends of Fahad into custody for further questioning. Abdul Wahid looks to be the more stubborn and unrelenting of the pair. Shaved head; unsmiling face; loud, angry voice. Jamal Malik's dark locks nearly reach his shoulders. He's got a few days' worth growth on his face, and might even be considered handsome – _if _he weren't on my list of suspicious characters. Malik is calm and soft-spoken. It's like looking at a Muslim version of the Odd Couple. Only this is no comedy.

Gibbs is presumably playing 'bad cop' to Officer David's 'good cop'. I watch the proceedings from the other side of the glass with Tony.

Abdul Wahid and Jamal Malik insist that Fahad was a peace-loving man.

_Right_. _That's why he strapped a bomb to himself and detonated it while Rick and Jim were with him._

Our dead terrorist, Fahad, had supposedly been planning a meeting of Shiite and Sunni clerics who were to issue _fatwas _condemning the suicide bombings in Iraq. I watch the session in disbelief while Malik passionately says such a move would save possibly thousands of lives.

Well, there are only _two_ lives I care about right at this moment: lives that were cut short by a hatred and an evil so vile, I've spent a good part of my adult life fighting it.

_Your chapter president was a liar and a coward,_ I want to scream at Malik. They're not going to get away with this. They're trying to shift the blame. They believe someone _else_ is out there, trying to derail Fahad's plans; trying to put this coalition in a bad light. Let them try. It was probably all a phony set-up to begin with, and we fell for the bait.

Abdul Wahid is most outspoken about the 'cause' they're supporting. He's been belligerent in his assertion that Yazeed Fahad would have never participated in a suicide bombing, and that he must have been forced to put on the vest.

_Sure. Who was it that 'forced him', the Tooth Fairy? I didn't see anybody else enter and leave the building, buddy. Your declarations of Fahad's innocence are falling on deaf ears._

Gibbs finally asks them where they were at the time of the bombing. Of course, Wahid refuses to answer. Malik admits they were having lunch together.

"Where?" Officer David asks.

Abdul seems to take offence. He declares they've done nothing wrong and that they're not criminals. Gibbs suggests that they get good lawyers and makes a move to leave the room. Jamal Malik relents, and calms his associate. He says they were at a diner on Grace Street between one and two-thirty. He hopes that by telling the truth, we'll do our jobs and prove Yazeed Fahad innocent.

Tony's already got the address of the diner scribbled down.

"I'm gonna go with you," I start, but Tony says that Gibbs wants me to stay behind.

"Why?"

"Ask him," Tony says simply, motioning towards Gibbs, and takes off for the diner on his own.

I stare back at Gibbs in the interrogation room. Why is he making me stay here? I feel like he's punishing me. But there's no reasoning with Gibbs once he's made up his mind about something. It's a lesson about him I've taken too long to learn.


	4. Message

Gibbs wants me to accompany him to the lab, and makes a pit-stop to grab a large cup of Caf-Pow. I discover it's not for him, but for Abby. Gibbs' black coffee addiction is almost legendary in NCIS circles, so I should have guessed it wasn't for him, or me, for that matter. I wouldn't have wanted it anyway; those things are loaded with caffeine. Right now I'm not in the mood for a caffeine-induced buzz.

Upon entering the lab, we're met by an unusual scene: Agent Timothy McGee sitting on the floor; Abby Sciuto in a squatting position with her arms around him. She pulls away like a guilty schoolgirl, and mumbles almost incoherently about what they were doing. Something about a 'squg'; whatever that is. She thinks better of her digression, and Gibbs hands her the drink. He pulls McGee up from the floor, and the junior agent makes a hasty departure, mentioning something about having some paperwork to complete.

We move over to one of Abby's monitors. She's been reviewing the tip calls: the one received this morning, and the one I received on-site while sitting in the surveillance car.

"Same caller both times," she remarks, "and I'm assuming it's this guy, Yahzeed Fahad." A picture of his driver's license pops up.

"Can you tell us something we _don't_ know, Abby?" I say, not bothering to hide my annoyance and impatience. Gibbs shoots me a warning look that I ignore.

Abby's taken aback by my curt sarcasm, but I'm not in the mood to cater to her feelings, or anyone else's at the moment. That's _my_ team lying in cold storage lockers in autopsy. Gibbs was right about one thing: resting or grieving until I nail the bastards that did this is out of the question. There's simply no time to be wasted.

"Uh...Okay," Abby responds, still stung by my words, "how about this?" Her fingers fly over her keyboard as she brings up more background history on the suicide bomber.

"He was in the Navy. Honourably discharged in 2004."

"The suicide bomber was a sailor," I say out loud, not sure what to make of this piece of information.

"_I wouldn't be too quick to rush to judgement on that, Agent Cassidy._" Dr. Mallard's voice and image come through over the Ojo personal video-phone device in the lab. "_Jethro, could you come down here?There's something you really must see._"

We both leave the lab without a word and head straight for Autopsy.

Ducky starts talking the instant we arrive. He has Yahzeed's detached head on a table with the skullcap removed, skin peeled back and brain tissue exposed.

"It appears we have a bit of a mystery: I'm not entirely certain how our guest died."

"Well, it's kinda obvious, Duck," Gibbs says, circling around the autopsy table where the rest of Yahzeed Fahad's charred, dismembered remains are on display.

"Yes," Dr. Mallard concedes, "_if _I base the results solely on the damage to his body. Fortunately, we have this miraculously preserved head."

I personally don't think any of this is remotely 'miraculous', but I keep my silence for the time being.

Ducky claims that the rate of decay he's observed in the brain tissue doesn't come close to the time of the explosion. It's a claim I take exception to.

"I saw _that guy_ walk through the door, Ducky." I say vehemently. I saw him walk through the door to the store _today; _mere hours ago.

But our ME advises me that he can't see how this is possible. He declares that Yahzeed was dead at least one day before the bomb that killed Jim and Rick was detonated. I don't think I'm able to hide the shock on my face.

Gibbs leaves to update Director Shepard on this development, and skeptical as I am, decide to leave for home without further protest. I'm suddenly feeling so very weary. My burns and scrapes are starting to make their presence felt, especially my left arm. It was bandaged hastily, but competently by paramedics at the scene of the bombing. Now all I want to do is go home and sleep.

I have an inkling of what will be awaiting me when I get to my apartment: an answering machine full of messages, mainly requests from the press begging for a sound bite of some sort. It's early Sunday evening on what has otherwise been a slow news week. A suicide bombing on American soil is headline-worthy news. By now, major networks and newspapers will have ferreted out the names of the 'victims' – Rick and Jim – and my name, too. It's against NCIS policy for me to say a word to these people about anything without proper authorization. The media know this, but that doesn't stop them from trying.

But the very first message is from my Mom, long-distance from Simi Valley, California. She's probably seen the breaking news reports about the bombing. Maybe Director Shepard put in a call to my parents, just to reassure them. Guiltily, I reflect that I haven't even had the time to get around to that. My focus on the case has been all-consuming.

I'm a little surprised when I hear the message when I play it back:

"_Paula, this is your mother..._" she starts haltingly, her voice thick with tension. "_I just keep having this awful feeling like something terrible has happened to you. Call me when you get this, okay? Love you. Good-bye._"

I hear the click of her hanging up.

It's uncanny, really. This isn't the first time this has happened. Mom placed a similar call to me the day Adam O'Neill, psycho copy-cat serial killer abducted me and tried to kill me. How she knew my life was in danger both then and now, I'll never know. She has some kind of sixth sense about all her children, it seems.

It's a matter of family lore that _her_ mother convinced her husband and family not to board the _Andrea Doria_. They were about to emigrate from Italy, and had booked passage on what would turn out to be the _Andrea Doria's _final voyage. My mother, who was 11 at the time, clearly remembers my grandmother adamantly refusing to step foot on the ship. My grandfather tried in vain to reason with her, thinking perhaps she was having last-minute jitters about such a life-changing move. After all, they were leaving the Mother-Country behind for a strange and foreign place. When she wouldn't give in, my grandfather eventually relented. History would prove my grandmother's decision to stay on dry land to be a prudent one, as the _Andrea Doria_ struck the MS _Stockholm _on July 25th, 1956, and sank, leaving 46 dead.

My grandmother never could explain her odd decision. All she'd ever say on the matter was that she had an overwhelming feeling to _stay_. Of course, she was shocked when she learned how that decision had most likely saved her life and those of her husband and children. At the very least, she saved them from suffering the trauma of an at-sea rescue and capsized ship. They eventually did immigrate to the 'States; just on a different ship. That trip was unremarkable and uneventful.

When I was younger, I never knew what to think of that story. I still don't. Maybe it's because I have no idea how to explain it. As an NCIS agent, I deal with facts and evidence and research; anything that can be bagged-and-tagged and quantified and proven by logic and scientific means. I only know I've never had that 'sixth sense'/third eye kind of experience my maternal relatives seem to have.

Even though I'm exhausted and emotionally spent (and not fond of long telephone conversations), I pick up the phone and call Mom. I decide I'll let her know I'm in one piece, ask her to give Dad my love, and that I promise I'll write her a long, detailed letter. She knows this is how I prefer to communicate, and has accepted this fact.

She picks up on the first ring. "Paula?" Her voice is anxious; shaky.

"Yes, it's me, Mom," I reply.

"I just knew something was wrong! We've just seen the news. Are you all right?"

"Just a few minor burns and cuts. Nothing serious. I'll live." I say it almost mechanically; as if it didn't really happen to _me_.

I hear her sigh with relief. "Thank God...What happened? They're saying it was a _suicide_ bomber! The two people who died – they were your men, then, weren't they?"

_My men._ In spite of my resolve not to cry, a lump forms in my throat. I choke back a sob. I can't erase the images of Jim and Rick's bodies from my mind.

"Yes," I manage to say. "Rick Hall and James Nelson. They went in ahead of me. It's just dumb luck that I didn't go right in with them. I should have been there. I should be dead."

"Don't say that," Mom says, horrified that I've even considered it.

I'm at a loss as to what else to say to her; another reason why I'd rather just write a letter. I'm better at formulating my thoughts on paper than I am saying things during a telephone conversation.

"I'm sorry," I say contritely. "I guess I'm just stressed, and tired and feeling sorry for myself. Sorry for Rick and Jim and their families and friends. Maybe even a touch of survivor's guilt."

"Of course, dear," Mom replies, understanding in her voice. "But please, be careful, Paula. I worry so much about you, you know."

"I know," I reply ruefully, "that's what moms do."

We end the call after I make promises that I'll be careful and that I'll send off a long letter as soon as I'm clear-headed enough to do so. Already I know what I _won't_ say in that letter, and that's the fact that I keep having a nagging feeling that I really _should_ have been in there with Rick and Jim; that I keep thinking it's only a matter of hours or days before Death comes to collect. Maybe I have that 'sixth sense' after all. What a crummy time for it to kick in.

The answering machine is still blinking at me, advising me I have several messages awaiting my attention. I choose to ignore them for now. I'm duty-bound to make two more calls. _I_ was Team Leader. The least I can do is call Amy Nelson and Tom and Mary Hall to offer my condolences.

My fingers hesitate over the keypad on the phone. _What do I say? Sorry your husband/son is dead. Sorry I led them into a trap. Will they resent that I'm alive and Rick and Jim aren't?_

_Amy was so beautiful at the wedding two months ago. Jim was showing off pictures of their Honeymoon for days after they got back from the Bahamas. They looked so happy. Now that's all gone. _

_And Rick...As far as I knew, he was their only son. Tom Hall was a retired Navy captain. Perhaps he might be better equipped to understand...he knows the meaning of 'the casualties of war'. But not so easy when it's an only son..._

I swallow and muster as much courage as I can. I force my fingers to dial Amy's number. Maybe I'll get lucky. Maybe she'll be screening her calls and will just let the machine take it. After 5 rings, she doesn't answer and I decide to hang up. Dammit all. I'm not good at this. I can't talk to these people through an impersonal network of fibre-optic cables. I'll just sit down and and write to them, just like I've always done. Deep inside, though, I know it will never be sufficient, no matter what form of communication I choose.

Maybe tomorrow things will be better. Maybe I'll wake up and find this whole day has just been one terrible nightmare. A new day brings new perspective, people say. I hope it also means I'll be able to shake the feeling that I should be in a cold locker - waiting for Ducky to start piecing together what happened when that bastard, Yahzeed, blew himself up with us in the store with him.


	5. Changes

**5**

Sleep didn't come easily. It was difficult finding a comfortable position to rest my aching body and bandaged arm. Even harder quieting my unsettled mind. I'd drift off, but then some small noise from the world outside my apartment would disturb me. Sometime before 6 am, I had a strange dream sequence of jumbled images and vague impressions. When I woke for good, all I could recall of it was that it had something to do with Agent Gibbs. He was refusing to respond to my call for backup even though in the dream I knew a terrorist attack was imminent. He told me I wasn't part of the team and that I was on my own. Things got hazy after that point. Better not to remember a dream like that. Gibbs in real life was trial enough.

I reluctantly pulled myself from bed and trudged tiredly to the bathroom. In the dim vanity lights, I peered at my reflection in the mirror. It looked haggard and drawn. Dark circles under my eyes; red splotches, the result of the burns and scrapes from the previous day's trauma, stood out prominently on my left cheek.

_Looks_ _like rosacea_, I thought sullenly. _The 'curse of the Celts', _as it was also known; Dad's Scottish side suffered from the condition. Generations of Cassidys had probably been thought to be hopeless alcoholics, when they were just unfortunate enough to suffer this unflattering disorder. It was known to resemble that broken capillary look some heavy drinkers tend to take on.

Carefully, I probed the small but deep laceration above my right eye. It was an angry scarlet colour. The butterfly bandage was holding, though. Through all the terror and confusion of the explosion, I wasn't even sure how it had occurred. Probably some flying glass or bit of wood grazed me. The paramedic that saw to me said to do my best to keep it clean. I was also supposed to leave the bandage on until it peeled off by itself.

I ran some warm water in the bathtub. To avoid getting my burns wet, I'd have to carefully wash in shallow water instead of my usual brisk shower.

"_Be careful, or the burns might get infected. You'll hinder the healing process."_ The paramedic advised.

_Can I ever get on with _healing _after what's happened_? Try as I might, I couldn't see a happy ending for this; a time when I'd be beyond the deaths of Rick and Jim. No light at the end of the tunnel.

_I love being an NCIS agent._ _But can I really go on after this?_

Dripping wet, I stepped out of the tub, gently towelled myself dry, then pulled on a terry-cloth bathrobe.

I looked at my face again. I desperately wanted to do something to 'fix' it. Reflected in my blue-gray eyes I saw hurt, defeat and brokenness. Make-up was out of the question; foundation would irritate my wounds. Well, my lips were okay. A little lip-stick, maybe. With a few dashes, I applied some, and smacked my lips together. Half-heartedly, I also applied some mascara and a little eye-shadow, being extra-careful with my right eyelid. Not much of an improvement, but it was better than nothing. I pulled my hair back and secured it in a pony tail behind my neck. It's much more flattering to have it loose, but today it would be a nuisance rubbing against my raw cheeks.

Hastily, I pulled on a pair of black slacks and a ribbed, powder-blue sweater that zipped up the front. I left the zip down. The sweater would chafe the light burns and scrapes that partially covered my upper chest area. The left sleeve was a little tight, owing to the bandaging on my arm, but that couldn't be helped.

I sipped a cup of coffee and choked down half an English muffin for breakfast. My throat felt tight and my stomach protested at my attempts to feed myself. Nerves. A lot of people claim they eat more when they're stressed and nervous; I totally lose my appetite. But I knew I had to maintain a sufficient energy level to make it through the day. I grabbed a banana, thinking this would be something that wouldn't be so hard to swallow. I forced my mouth to open, bite and chew, but nearly gagged on the mushy fruit. Funny how an exercise that was supposed to be pleasurable could also be painful. I reflected that was probably true about a lot of things in life.

_Hold that thought,_ I said to myself, willing my brain to lock out anything that had to do with failed relationships and a non-existent love life..._and a flirtatious, game-playing Tony DiNozzo_..._a Tony DiNozzo I might have considered seriously as a lifetime partner had things been different between us?_ _If he had been a little less of an adolescent and a little more of a grown-up? _I sighed out loud. I thought suddenly about Amy Nelson. Did Jimmy at least tell her he loved her one last time before he died? That Sunday morning as he left for work, did they exchange some final words, or some demonstration of affection? I hoped they had.

Had I told Mom I loved her and Dad on the phone last night? Almost in a panic, I realised I wasn't sure. I must have; it would have been very remiss of me if I hadn't. I resolved that I'd make sure I would when I settled down to write to them.

I tossed half the uneaten banana in the trash. I just couldn't finish it; I was feeling nauseated just by the smell of it.

On my way out the door, I noticed my answering machine was still indicating I had messages waiting for me. I'd turned off the ringer on my phone for the night so I wouldn't be disturbed. There was no time now to check my voice mail; I was reporting to NCIS for 0800 hours to continue the investigation into the murder of my team.

ooo

I pulled up my sleeves when I arrived in the squad room. My arm was starting to ache, and I cradled it as I listened to Officer Ziva David prattle on about useless information regarding the deceased Yahzeed Fahad.

_No explosives found in his apartment; former sailor, president of the Muslim Society for Promoting Peace; his friends' alibis checked out..blah blah blah._

"Are you going to make a _point_ soon?" I blurted out with impatience. None of this was getting us any closer to _why_ we were set up, and why Rick and Jim were dead.

Ziva stopped her recitation of the known facts, and froze the screen on one of the surveillance shots I'd snapped of our 'anonymous' contact.

"Yes," she finally said, and turned to face me. She then questioned me like she was questioning a child about who I saw yesterday entering the building.

"I'm not convinced it wasn't _this _guy," I replied, meaning Fahad. "I mean, how do we know Ducky didn't make a mistake?" I looked to Tony for support.

"Tony?" Ziva looked to him to for an answer, also seeking his support.

"'Cause Ducky doesn't make mistakes, Paula." Tony stated.

_Traitor, _I thought angrily.

"Which means that what you saw yesterday was, by definition, _mistaken_," Ziva said condescendingly.

I felt my ire rising. I couldn't believe this _Mossad_ officer was questioning my years of experience and training in observation and analysis that I'd had with the NCIS.

"_Look_," I said, keeping my voice measured, but with just enough of an edge that they knew I wasn't pleased, "even if he did die the day before, it doesn't mean he wasn't involved...right? Tony?"

Once again, I reached out for his support.

This time, he agreed. "She does have a valid point, Ziva."

"We don't even know his cause of death. For all we know, he could have committed suicide!" I said, desperately trying to defend my case.

Ziva shot me a patronizing look. Too late I realised I should have kept that last comment to myself; I'd been grasping at straws with that one.

"A suicide bomber who commits suicide before his bombing?" she retorted, as if it were the most ludicrous thing she'd ever heard. "That doesn't make any sense!"

_Well, just who the hell did she think she was?!_

I was already staring daggers at her and about to get into a verbal sparring match that, in my mind could escalate to a physical one, when Tony stood up to intervene.

"No, it doesn't," he said, again agreeing with _her _that my theory didn't make any sense. "But it _does_ raise an interesting point: imagine, if you will, ladies, an assisted suicide of a suicide bomber, who suicided before his suicide bombing..."

I looked away from Ziva before she could get any further under my skin. Tony's blabbing continued: "It's kinda like how many chucks would a woodchuck chuck chuck if a wood chuck could chuck woo -."

Agent Gibbs picked the most opportune time to show up, and delivered a smack to Tony's head, putting an end to his nonsensical chatter .

"DiNozzo," he said reproachfully, "what the hell is wrong with you?"

"I am just trying to lighten the mood of the room a little bit, boss," Tony muttered under his breath, implying Ziva and I were somehow making it uncomfortable on him.

"I got a better way," Gibbs shot back, "_leave. _And take her with you." He pointed a finger at me.

"That works for me," Ziva said smugly, as I dejectedly followed after Tony.

"That works for me, too, _Day_-vid," I retorted grumpily, purposely mispronouncing her surname.

But Ziva refused to be baited. "_Dah_-veed," she corrected sweetly; unperturbed.

"Re-evaluate the crime scene," Gibbs continued, "do not come back until you figure out how the guy _she_ saw got out before the explosion."

The elevator _dinged_, and Tony and I stepped inside when the doors opened. He must have sensed I was still fuming over my little exchange with Ziva, because he uttered not a single word.

We grabbed some gear for our trip, and shrugged on our NCIS field jackets. I was in no mood to drive, but it annoyed me slightly that Tony took the keys and hopped in the driver's seat without even asking what I'd prefer. All during the ride, we maintained an uneasy silence, and I started to wonder if my behaviour in the bullpen had upset him more than he was letting on.

Was I forcing him to divide his loyalties? A lot of people aren't comfortable when they're expected to pick sides. What did Ziva mean to him? She was, for all intents and purposes, his partner. Sure, Tony and I were never _professional _partners for any significant length of time...but our history together pre-dated Ziva. With that thought planted firmly in mind, I decided Tony should have given me the benefit of the doubt, and backed me instead.

Tony brought the car to a stop outside the cordoned-off site of the bombing. As if sensing my thoughts, he said, "You know, Ziva's really not all that bad."

I scoffed as I opened my door. "Yeah, right."

"You haven't given her a chance. You've only just met her."

"I don't know how you ever had the patience to get to _know_ her. In fact..." I stepped out of the car and continued: "I don't know how you _work_ with her!"

"I worked with you, didn't I?" Tony replied.

_Smart ass_. "Funny," I said wryly, and reached into the back seat for my gear. "What do you think Gibbs would do if I _slapped_ her?"

"I'm more worried about what _she'd_ do," Tony replied, slinging his pack onto a shoulder. "You know, Mossad assassin and all..."

"You don't think I could take her? I took _you_, didn't I?" I said, as we made our way to the entrance.

"Uh, technically, you did put me down," he admitted, as he pulled out some gloves. "But I distinctly remember the floor was slippery that day."

I figured challenging him on that would have been pointless. Besides; I realised he was teasing. I half smiled at his interesting interpretation on what actually happened day I twisted his arm and pinned him to a desk. _It was the last time I worked with Tony... That awful Kyle Boone case... _

Tony lifted the yellow crime scene tape for me. I ducked under it, banishing certain unpleasant memories.

I paused at the empty door frame for a few seconds, struggling to rein in my more recent 'unpleasant' memories. There was a complete shift in atmosphere as I stood on the threshold. I drew in a breath and exhaled, but the whole room felt airless and stuffy. A sudden chill passed through me.

_This is where they died. No...this is where they were murdered. _

"Okay, you do the left, I'll do the right," Tony said, coming up behind me.

"Okay," I breathed, still feeling unsettled. _I should have been here..._

"You okay?" Tony asked, concern evident in his voice.

I nodded, but the truth was I was on the verge of tears. I glanced around, taking in the portable lights that had been set up; some planks of wood on the floor; a ladder on the far right wall...

"It's a little dusty in here," I murmured, recalling the utter state of destruction it had been in only yesterday...nothing would ever wipe that horrifying image from my brain cells for as long as I lived.

I felt Tony's hand on my shoulder. "Paula, you don't have to do this," he said gently.

"We both know that I do," I replied, trying to be even a little bit courageous, but I knew I was still sounding unsteady and emotional. His concern was actually slightly disconcerting. "When did _you_ start being so caring?"

I hadn't meant to sound ungracious; fortunately, he didn't seem to mind.

"I have always been caring," Tony answered, as I moved off to inspect my side of the room. "I come from a very caring family. The DiNozzos, in fact, are _celebrated_ for their caring-ness."

"Right," I said, not buying a word of it.

"Maybe I wasn't as caring once as I am now," Tony said, a questioning tone in his voice. He was silently begging for me to pick up on it.

Curiosity got the better of me. _A Tony DiNozzo with a caring attitude? Hmm_... "What brought that on?" I asked as I pulled on my gloves. When he didn't answer right away, I stole a glance at him. He was crouched, and he was looking down at the ground; his face pensive.

Then it dawned on me: "Or should I say '_who_'?"

"Well, you get older, you change."

I'd hit the nail on the head.

"What's her name?" I asked, then a horrifying thought occurred to me. _Not the Mossad-girl._ "_Please_ tell me it's _not_ Ziva!" Anybody but her!

"It's _not_ Ziva," Tony answered.

"Good," I replied with relief. I don't think I could have tolerated it if it had been Ziva.

"Her name is 'Jeanne'," Tony revealed.

"Do you love her?" I asked, attempting to sound casual.

"Yeah, I do, Paula," Tony said softly and simply, yet those words were so genuine, I knew he was telling the truth. But there was a wistfulness about him, and I wondered if everything was okay. My heart gave an odd flutter at the thought that Tony had found someone he was serious about.

"Wow. You really mean that...What's the problem?" Once again, I was trying to sound casual about the whole thing.

Tony sighed. "I can't tell her."

"Why can't you tell her, Tony? It's just three simple little words: '_I love you_'." What was _wrong _with me? Why this sudden rush of emotion for a man I'd dumped ages ago because I grew tired of his lack of maturity?

"It's not so simple. We were on this climbing wall, and she made a little bet," Tony said, looking up at his side of the wall, idly playing his flashlight on the surface. "First on to the top gets to say 'I love you.'"

Uh-oh. I knew where this was going. "You lost on purpose," I said, guessing that he'd probably chickened out on the bet, which was a pretty lousy thing to do.

"No, I won," he countered.

"And you didn't say it?" Even worse.

He guiltily looked away. I could tell he regretted it, and that he was still struggling with it.

"You know, Tony, it's a cliché, but it is true: life is too short to not tell someone you love them if you do...and you do." He stared at me, without guile and without any hint that he was making a mockery of my advice.

We went back to work after that, covering every inch of the walls, searching for some way a person could have escaped the room. Inside, my emotions were playing havoc. My own clichéd words of wisdom to Tony echoed in my mind. This 'Jeanne' did something to Tony's heart that no one else had been able to do: she'd stolen it, and he really _was_ a different person. He hadn't been at all flirty with me this time around. There had been none of his juvenile comments; no attempts to look down my shirt. His joking nature had only made brief and fleeting appearances. Yes, he certainly must have deep feelings for this Jeanne. This was a changed Tony; this Tony I could have fallen in love with - if only I had been the one to bring about the changes Jeanne had. But I hadn't been the one, and I now knew I would never be.


	6. Smoke

After an hour or so of scrutinizing every crevice and crack in the wall; tapping and kicking and poking, even crawling on the floor looking for a trapdoor, we had to concede that everything appeared pretty solid.

I sighed out loud. "There's nothing here, Tony. There's just no other way in or out except for that front door. It could only have been Yahzeed Fahad. Ducky's mistaken about his time of death."

This didn't satisfy Tony. I could tell was still frustrated about it, because Gibbs wouldn't like that answer. He stood there, arms folded, staring at the wall he'd been studying.

"Earth to Tony," I said, "are you ready to pack it in for the day?"

"Not yet..." he replied vaguely. He appeared to be thinking deeply about something. "I have an idea. Promise I'll be right back."

"Where are you going?" I called out to his swiftly retreating figure.

"To pick up some non-NCIS-issue supplies," he called back. "I won't be long. Don't go anywhere!"

He was gone.

I let out a groan of frustration. My arm was starting to ache again, and I felt drained, mentally and emotionally. There was something about this room...not just because Jim and Rick had died here...Afternoon sunlight was streaming in, but the gray walls of this room were stark and cold and uninviting. If I had to put a label on it, _evil_ would be the most suitable. Evil personified in Yahzeed Fahad had brazenly walked in here yesterday and killed my team. Even though the room had been cleared of all signs of death and devastation, the darkness of that event still lingered.

I slid down against the wall, giving my tired feet a rest, propping my arm up on my raised left knee.

I don't know how long I sat there, eyes closed, lost in my thoughts. Thoughts about my career, my family, my earlier squabble with Ziva...the changes in Tony...I also thought a lot about the decision I'd made to be a 'team player' and pick up the Hotline duty, even though we'd had it the weekend before...

_If I had just turned down that cursed duty...if I had just insisted on meeting Yahzeed on the street instead of inside...if I had just been five seconds quicker getting here..._

But I hadn't done any of those things. I knew that no traces of bomb-making materials had been found at Yahzeed's home. That was an indicator he either made the deadly device himself at some other location, or that he had help. And if he had help (and I had to concede that Yahzeed probably wasn't a single-man terrorist cell) then I was going to get that person, or I was going to die trying.

I slowly opened my eyes and stared at the opposite wall. Against my will, the previous day's frightful scene played through my mind. I couldn't stop imagining the scenario, and what Jim and Rick must have been thinking and feeling when they realised they were about to die...

"I let you down," I found myself saying aloud, "but I give you my word I'm gonna get this bastard."

"Who are you talking to?"

Tony had returned, and his words momentarily startled me.

"No one," I answered, self-consciously smoothing my hair back against my head, "me."

He seemed not to be too concerned that I'd been talking to myself, and I was grateful that he didn't pursue it.

"I got the goodies," he proclaimed, stooping next to me. He plopped a large brown paper bag on the floor. It crackled noisily as he withdrew each item.

"Cigar, paper towel, water, and a candy bar. That one's for you," he said, and tossed me the Snickers bar.

I caught it, but said half-jokingly: "Think I'd rather have the cigar."

"Well, I need it," Tony said as he stood up. "If there _is_ a secret passageway in here, I'm finding it." He fished in his pocket for a lighter.

"And how are you going to do that?" I heard him flicking the lighter and saw puffs of smoke as he tried to light up.

"I saw it in this old monster movie once," he said, as he approached the back wall.

Well, of course he had. Movie buff Tony. The last time I was ever in Tony's apartment, there had been _stacks_ of DVDs, some still unopened, in their original plastic shrink wrapping.

I recalled that the first time we hooked up after our Gitmo case, he'd _insisted_ on watching '_Shane_', with Alan Ladd as the titular character. He never really told me why. I hadn't pegged Tony as a Western lover. Stuff more along the lines of testosterone-packed Action flicks, like '_Rambo' _or _'Die Hard' _were more his style, I thought at the time.

Tony continued his narrative about the monster movie plot: "This guy...is trying to find his girlfriend in some evil scientist's castle." It sounded more like '_in shum evil shientisht's cashuhl_' as he put the cigar in his mouth. He took a few puffs, and blew smoke against the cinder block wall.

"Now don't move," he commanded, and shined the flashlight on the wispy trails of smoke, "...too much or talk...And if there are any gaps in these walls, then the air pressure should suck some smoke through 'em."

"DiNozzo, we checked this wall," I replied tiredly, as he came around the corner, "it's solid brick."

"You ever hear of a secret passageway?"

"Well, this wall shares with the building next to it. How could there _be_ a passageway?"

"Okay, Paula, a secret _door_ then," he retorted, moving slowly along the wall. He crossed in front of me with the lit cigar and flashlight.

I wasn't in the mood for parlour tricks. I'd had enough of this room. I picked myself up and said that since we were running out of daylight, I'd be in the car. I hadn't even taken three steps when Tony called out to me.

"Special Agent Cassidy! Check this out." He was standing in the spot I'd just vacated, his face inches away from the wall. I turned back to him, and he blew out another mouthful of cigar smoke. The flashlight perfectly illuminated everything: the smoke was clearly being sucked through some space in the wall, invisible to the naked eye. It was like magic.

"Wow," I said, suitably impressed. This meant there probably _was_ a 'secret' door between this room and the one next to us. Still in awe, I left him there to retrieve a pry bar. "I can't believe it..."

"Believe it," I heard Tony reply.

I pulled the pry bar from the trunk and was about to head back to Tony when I hesitated. A thought occurred to me that there might be a triggering mechanism on the other side of the wall, in the adjoining room. Instead of prying it open, there was a chance I could just throw a switch or something to open the hidden door. I made my way inside the other half of the building and found it was almost identical in design to the one used by the members of the Muslim Coalition: a door in the centre and two windows on the left and right. The walls, however, were painted in a sort of ecru, and surfaces were dusty only due to lack of use. I don't know what the previous proprietor had done with this space, but several odds and ends remained. There were a couple bags of trash, a wrecked cardboard box...also a wooden cabinet, some empty shelving units, and what looked like imitation brass stands - probably hat racks and coat racks.

I put the pry bar down a shelf and turned my attention to the brick wall that separated the two rooms. I observed that there were two gold-coloured tubes or pipes parallel to each other, affixed to the wall. Curiously, the upper ends were bent downwards. They might once have been used to hang or display clothes; I really didn't know. I decided it couldn't be a coincidence that these tubes lined up exactly with the spot on the wall Tony had blown smoke through.

I started tugging on one of the down-turned ends of the tubes, hoping to find some means of activating the hidden door. While doing this, I heard a curious 'thud', but ignored it and kept tinkering with the tubing while pushing against the wall. Nothing happened. I changed my positioning and gave another shove. A whole middle section of the wall suddenly swivelled open with a grinding noise, revealing the other room. I saw Tony clutching his shoulder, a grimace on his face.

He turned and looked over at me, wide-eyed; mouth agape at my surprise entrance.

"I thought I'd just check it from this side," I explained. "This thing is cool!"

Noting that Tony actually looked like he was in pain, I asked if he was okay.

"It's a - old college football injury," he grunted, and staggered over to retrieve the camera.

I held the door open so Tony could get shots of it from all angles. When he was finished, he walked through, and I let go the edge I'd been gripping with my good hand. As soon as I did, the door slammed shut loudly.

"That do close kind of fast, don't it?" Tony quipped.

"It wouldn't be much of a 'secret door' if it stayed open long, now, would it?"

I walked over to the shelf to pick up the pry bar and noticed something on the floor: small, black pieces, somewhat dusty. Pieces, I was certain, of a lens from a pair of sunglasses.

"Tony, look," I said, squatting down to get closer. "The guy that I saw was wearing mirrored shades this shape. He probably dropped them hauling ass from the explosion."

Tony walked up to get a picture, and I stood to get out of his field of view.

"Congratulations, you did see him," Tony commented as he snapped off another shot. I went to a side door that led out to the alley. I opened the door and looked out, just to satisfy my curiosity that it was indeed a viable means of escape.

"Means you're not crazy," Tony concluded.

"Not yet, at least," I said, looking back at him. "Hey, we really should talk to the landlord. Check out what exactly this place was used for in the past. This 'Muslim Coalition for Peace', couldn't have _modified_ this building without anyone knowing, could they? It would take a lot of work to put in secret door like that."

"Good question, Paula," Tony said. "Let's give him a call and find out."

While he was calling the number he had for the landlord, I slipped a glove on my right hand and carefully bagged the pieces of broken lens for evidence.

About ten minutes later, we got the response that while it had changed hands several times over the years, the entire building – both rooms, had been a novelty shop that closed about twenty years ago. Magic kits and Whoopee Cushion sort of place. '_Dickie's Tricks_' it had been called, apparently. No doubt the hidden door was part of the attraction, but totally forgotten once that business shut down. Later owners probably had no idea the door existed, especially since the rooms were being rented separately.

As we drove back to NCIS, I didn't know whether to think it was just dumb luck or a calculated decision on the part of the terrorists that they'd found and used the secret door in their deadly scheme. Had they stumbled upon it while painting the room by accident, or had they been aware of it from the beginning and rented it for that specific purpose? I doubted we'd ever know for sure.

My thoughts and emotions were churning. All along, I'd directed my anger and hatred in Yahzeed's direction. I'd needed someone to blame. But things were still so jumbled and confused...If Ducky was right, and Yahzeed was dead before the bomb went off, then who called me? And further, if it _wasn't_ Yahzeed I'd spotted entering the building, since clearly there was opportunity for another person to slip out via the secret door - and then out to the alley - then who was it?

ooo

We headed straight for the lab once we returned, eager to get the evidence we'd recovered logged for the case file. Abby's ever-present soundtrack of unidentifiable 'music' was going, and I handed Tony the chain-of-evidence form to sign. I'll never know how Abby manages to concentrate with that noise, but I have to admit she gets the job done.

"You guys miss me today, Abs?" Tony asked the forensics expert, who came to check out our latest offering.

"Why, where were you?" Abby replied innocently. He looked up at her, then thought better of getting into unecessary banter.

"Never mind," he said.

"Of _course_ I did, Tony!" Abby said, relenting. She reached over and gave him a big hug, encircling his wide shoulders. This elicited a groan of pain from Tony, and he winced as Abby pulled away.

"Sorry!" she said, concern on her pale face. "Are you okay?"

Tony gently touched a spot on his right shoulder. I noticed it _wasn't_ the shoulder he'd been complaining about earlier with his 'old football injury'. Clearly, he was trying to play the sympathy card.

"Cassidy hit me," Tony said accusingly. Abby shot me a dirty look.

I rolled my eyes. "If I'd _punched_ him, Abby, he wouldn't be standing."

With that answer, Abby slugged him for real. He shot her a 'what was that for' look.

"Never lie to a woman, Anthony DiNozzo!" she admonished. Realising he'd lost that battle, Tony proceeded to try to torment Agent McGee, who was standing behind me, tapping away at a computer terminal.

"What do we got, McGeeckle?"

Tim ignored the insult. "Well, Ducky is still saying that Yahzeed was dead when the bomb went off, and Abby is saying that he was alive."

"What did _Gibbs_ say?" Tony asked.

"Where the hell you been, DiNozzo?" We hadn't noticed Gibbs entering the lab.

Without even turning to look at Gibbs, but face still abashed, Tony answered: "Solving the mystery of the vanishing dirtbag, Boss!"

"Yeah, well...it took ya long enough," Gibbs replied without enthusiasm, or even a hint of praise. He strode into the room with Ziva close behind.

"He, uh, found a secret passageway into the store next to it," I said, trying to impress upon Gibbs that it hadn't been easy. "It was actually quite impressive."

"Turns out both places were part of a, um, magic/joke shop that closed down about 20 years ago," Tony finished.

"So I was right," Ziva chimed in, fixing her steely gaze on me. "You _didn't_ see Yahzeed enter the building."

I felt an instant rush of hostility boiling up inside. "Thank you for pointing that out..." I said bluntly, looking away. "Officer Day-vid." Again, I purposely mis-pronounced her name.

"_Dah-veed!_" she snapped angrily, startling Abby, who was standing right next to her. She must have been wondering what was going on between us. Everyone else ignored the situation, which was somewhat of a relief.

"But now we know we're looking for another man," Tony said, approaching Abby, "and, we're hoping..._praying_ that you can pull a print off that." He motioned to the broken lens.

Abby took on a solemn expression. "If there is a print; if there is a fiber; if there is a drop of dried sweat, I will find it." She sounded as if she were reciting an official lab-technician oath.

Upon hearing this, Gibbs made his move to leave. "Not bad," were his parting words.

God, would it _kill _him to dish out more compliments? Tony hurried out after him, leaving me with Ziva, McGee and Abby. The Mossad officer sent me another disdainful look, and I turned away, sending her one last look of scorn over my shoulder. I still couldn't figure out why she was so intent on needling me, but it was really starting to piss me off.

"You gonna stay down here?" Abby asked me, before I had more time to think about the mutual animosity festering between Ziva and me.

"Yes," I said, keeping my voice even. "If you pull a print or anything off that, I want to be here when you get a hit on it."

"That's going to take a while," she said. "I'll probably end up leaving things running overnight as it is."

I sighed, feeling deflated. It was already early evening, and I was running on a few hours' worth of sleep. I also still needed to pick up some supplies so I could re-dress my wrist and hand. Reluctantly, I called it a night. I left the lab, got into my car and headed for a drugstore in the quickly gathering dusk.

It was after eight when I reached my apartment. I was so tired, all I wanted to do was fall into bed. But hunger and anxiety ate at my stomach. I hadn't really eaten lunch; that had been the Snickers bar. Somewhere out there, the man who lured Jim and Rick to their deaths was probably finishing dinner, or watching TV, or God knew what else. He was probably revelling in his subterfuge, mocking us and patting himself on the back for his cleverness. Abby's machines and computers, though, were bearing down on his identity. I hoped.

In the bathroom, I opened the box of sterile guaze and gingerly peeled back the bandage on my arm. The area that was most affected was my wrist and the heel of my palm. My fingers, too, were pretty ragged from scraping against hot asphalt. The wounds were already showing signs of healing, though still red and raw. I'd landed on this arm when the shockwave of the blast had slammed into me. The paramedic had told me I was lucky I hadn't broken it, and informed me I wouldn't be needing a sling.

I ruefully reflected that the last time I'd been with this team of agents (sans the frustrating and annoying Officer David), I actually did end up with the opposite arm in a sling. Crazy killer Adam O'Neill's knife had been the cause that time. A deep, three-inch gash that required stitches ensured that my arm could use the support of a sling for a few days while I recovered. Even more than a year later, the scar that remained was a grim reminder of that encounter. I stared at my face in the mirror, and saw uncertainty and unrest flicker through my eyes. _Remember you got through that one, Cassidy. You killed that bastard and walked away in one piece. _

What about this time? Mirthlessly, I searched my thoughts and found they were full of nothing but negativity and vengeance. If I had to be honest with myself, my thoughts were actually destructive ones. But I couldn't help it. I felt like some internal clock was winding down; a steady ticking counting the days, hours and minutes until...what? The moment I would come face-to-face with the killer or killers of my team? Something was building, and I wasn't sure I'd be able to keep a lid on it when it finally blew.

I re-bandaged my wrist and hand. It was a lot less bulkier than the version done on-site by the paramedic. I used a regular Band-Aid on one of my fingers and tossed the used bandages in the trash.

After a quick dinner of a can of chicken-noodle soup and a slice of toast that I barely tasted, I shucked my work clothes and pulled on a comfortable pair of pyjama pants and an old T-shirt. I set my clock a full hour earlier than my usual waking time, because I wanted to be in the lab first thing in the morning, just in case Abby's machines had come up with something worthwhile.

As I drifted off to sleep, I realised I hadn't responded to any of my answering machine messages, and that I still owed several people a letter in the mail..._Tomorrow_, I thought, and let my exhaustion take over. I wasn't aware of anything else until my alarm woke me Tuesday morning.


	7. Shootout

I awoke with a renewed sense of purpose as soon as my feet hit the floor. I went through my usual morning ablutions briskly and efficiently; pulled on a pair of hunter green slacks and a white, long-sleeved, scoop neck T-shirt.

In the mirror, I appraised myself. I prodded the gash above my eye, and decided I'd just leave it alone. The burns on my upper chest appeared like two angry red streaks, and I threw on my dark brown suede jacket to help conceal them. I ran a brush through my hair and once again pulled it back into a pony-tail and clipped it in place behind my neck. My cheek was still looking uncharacteristically rosy, so I held off on the foundation make-up. I hastily applied some lip-stick, eye-shadow and mascara; more out of habit than vanity.

In the kitchen, I eyed the cluster of bananas in the fruit bowl, but decided I was too pumped up to eat anything.

Today we were going to get a break in the case; I could _feel _it. I wanted nothing less than justice for Rick and Jim, and I had full confidence in Abby's ability to find us something useful. I grabbed my keys and hurried out to my car in the early morning light; headed towards the Navy Yard and my temporary home base.

As I travelled the familiar route, I tried to think about what I would do_ after_ all this went away; _after_ I settled the debt I owed my team. Could I return to the Pentagon? Would I be assigned a new team? I supposed that would be up to the discretion of Director Shepard...but it was almost like I'd hit a mental block when it came to deciding my future. I just couldn't imagine past today. I knew there would be things I'd _have_ to do soon enough – funerals for Rick and Jim being the most obvious, but I couldn't even see as far as that.

_You're just too focused on the task at hand. Tunnel vision, Cassidy. You've got blinkers on. _

Abby was in the lab when I arrived, her music already going full-blast. She turned when she heard me, and greeted me with a short wave and a "Hi", then turned back.

"Hey, Abby," I responded. I noticed she had a half-eaten bowl of cereal nearby and she was reviewing something on one of her monitors.

"Good news," she announced.

My heart skipped a beat. "What?"

"Last night, I pulled some useful prints off the lens you and Tony found yesterday."

"Really? That's great! Find a match yet?" I asked hopefully.

"Nope."

"Okay...You mind if I wait here until you do?" I didn't want to add an _if you do_ to that.

"Grab a seat."

"Okay." I pulled up a stool and parked myself in front of the monitor that was processing the print information Abby had input.

Abby suddenly swivelled away, her double-pony tails bobbing, and went back to eating her cereal. "I can't look," she muttered. "It's like watching water while you wait for it to boil – it takes forever. Which, technically, isn't true, since the water would still boil at the same rate whether you were staring at it or not, but-." She must have seen my look of slight annoyance, because she caught herself and stopped jabbering. Instead she looked pointedly at her bowl, then at me and said: "Want some cereal? It's from Ducky's stash. Fiber-Flakes. They're very good."

"Think I'll pass, Abby. Thank you," I said politely.

She shrugged and went back to eating.

I continued to stare at the screen, mentally willing the computer to pull a match from the vast store of archived fingerprints. My head began to spin as I watched the images fly by; whorls and loops and arches, all the while thinking about the one specific individual these prints belonged to.

Did he have a criminal record? I certainly hoped he did. Because if that were the case, it was only a matter of time before his identity would be revealed to us. Rage flared up inside me, and anger hardened my heart. I could feel my jaw clenching involuntarily.

_I'll kill him_, I thought. _I'll kill the bastard responsible._

As I sat stewing in my dark mood, I was aware that Abby had subtly sidled up to me, ostensibly focusing her attention on the fingerprint search. I looked at her out of the corner of my eyes, and discovered that she was actually studying me, instead.

"Something on your mind, Abby?" I asked directly. I perceived that by asking _now_, I'd forestall a long morning of the scientist dithering between asking or not asking me whatever it was that was bothering her.

"Um..." she started, pencil-thin eyebrows shooting up, "no...yes...I mean, nothing's bothering _me, _exactly..."

"Abby," I said crisply, "spit it out."

"Forget it. None of my business."

_Is she _always_ this frustrating_, I thought, then I hit upon something. "Is this about what happened yesterday with Ziva?"

Abby pursed her lips, and her eyes darted away.

Her silence was all I needed, so I went ahead: "Look, I don't like her; she doesn't like me. I don't know if she's always been this bitchy or if she just saves it for special occasions...if that's the case, then I guess I qualify as one of those 'special occasions'."

"Ziva is...different," Abby started slowly, "but she's really good at what she does. And I think Gibbs trusts her a lot."

If she had been hoping that would improve my opinion of the Mossad agent, she'd failed. Miserably. Unspoken resentment darkened my already dark mood. Ziva had been with them for what, just over a year? Granted, I'd never been friendly with Abby, but I once again felt like an outsider. It took much effort not to sulk in front of Abby, but from her continued silence, I believe she must have realised she'd done little to improve the situation.

For almost half an hour, we simply sat watching the screen. When I grew tired of that, I reviewed the case notes gathered from Kertek Computing, even though I knew every other staff member, besides Yahzeed Fahad, had been eliminated as a possible voice match.

I tried to ignore Abby's lab 'soundtrack', as well as my self-recrimination for the way things had gone downhill in such a short space of time. I'd been _happy_, damnit! I loved my team; I loved my work...I swallowed hard and fought back tears that I could feel springing up behind my eyes.

At that moment I could once again feel the weight of Abby's gaze on me.

"You know, Paula," she started hesitantly, "I didn't get a chance to say it to you, but I am really sorry for what happened to your team...I mean, I know what it feels like to lose a team member, so..."

Her words of sympathy were so unexpected, that I was momentarily unable to reply.

I bit my lip and nodded, and finally mustered a quiet "Thank you".

Suddenly the computer alerted us that a match for the prints had been found. We both jumped involuntarily, and Abby raised her arms in triumph and let out a jubilant: "Yes!"

"Who is it? Who is it?!" I demanded.

"Salman Umar," Abby answered, reading the result from the screen.

_Salman Umar_...he was on the list of staff at Kertek... What stake did he have in all this? We'd find out soon enough. All I cared about now was finding him and nailing his ass to the wall. This was the man I'd seen all along, then. _This_ was the man that set us up.

The two of us raced out of the lab to share the news with the others.

"Where's Gibbs?" Abby called out excitedly as soon as we were within hearing distance.

"We found him," I said, trailing behind Abby.

Ziva and McGee looked up from their desks to see what the fuss was about. "Who?" Tim asked, sliding over in his chair.

"That dirtbag who took my team into that slaughterhouse," I replied in a low, furious voice.

"Gibbs! Gibbs! Gibbs! Gibbs!" Abby cried, as she saw him entering the bullpen. "We got a fingerprint match off the piece of mirrored sunglass lens that Cassidy and Tony found."

She flashed Umar's arrest record sheet on-screen for everyone to see. His mug-shot showed us a man with dark eyes and moustache; a face without a trace of emotion or compassion.

Ziva said in recognition: "Salman Umar. We interviewed him yesterday at Kertek Computing!" From her expression of near disbelief, I could tell she was surprised by this discovery.

She stood immediately and grabbed her things in anticipation of our next move.

Abby was still talking about the fingerprint evidence as we rushed around the bullpen, readying ourselves for the next phase of the investigation. I pulled on my jacket and followed Ziva and Gibbs. Abby barely noticed that we were already at the elevators when she stopped and waved to McGee, who stopped to wave back.

"Be safe!" she called out, and Gibbs yanked the stalled McGee inside just before the doors closed.

The trip to Kertek wasn't nearly fast enough, even though Gibbs drove like a madman, pushing the speed limit. My stomach was tied up in knots, and my palms were clammy and cold as my mind's eye focused on the image of Umar's face from his mug-shot; a face that I was sure would be forever etched on my brain cells. _Let him be at work today_, I thought. _He must answer for his crimes. He'll pay dearly._

I knew Gibbs and Ziva had already been to Kertek and had interviewed the employees. They didn't mention if they ever thought Umar was on their radar as a possible suspect. It seemed to me that the only fruitful evidence they were able to gather from yesterday's jaunt was Yahzeed's training DVD.

_So how are you involved, Umar? _I thought bitterly.

We maintained a tense silence right up until we arrived at Kertek. Once inside, Gibbs quietly advised McGee that we were going in low and slow. With purposeful strides, he led us down a hall that opened into the main work area. I felt wound tight as drum, heart beating wildly inside my chest. It was as if I'd walked into an airless, stifling place. Was it all coming down to this moment in time when we'd take down Salman Umar? And would I be able to breathe again once we had him?

"Take the rear exit, and don't spook him," Gibbs instructed McGee. "Find out if he's working with anyone else." Tim made for the exit without another word.

"I don't get an answer from _you, _Cassidy, I'll take your weapon right now," Gibbs came to a full stop and glared at me.

"_Alive,_ I've got it; alive," I swallowed my indignation and tried to ignore how shabbily Gibbs was continuing to treat me. Really, how unprofessional did he think I was?

Seemingly appeased by my reply, he turned back and we came to the end of the hall. We entered the work area, which was filled with partitioned-off cubicles. A handful of Kertek employees were milling about; others busy at their workstations.

"Well, Special Agent Gibbs," a man greeted us cordially. He'd just come from an inner office, and I realised he was probably the boss or manager of some sort at Kertek. That would make him Abu Selom, if my memory served me correctly from the notes on the previous day's investigation. He asked Gibbs if there had been any further development. Gibbs amicably admitted that we needed to ask his staff a few more questions.

With a sigh of slight irritation, Selom said that we'd already cost him a full days' work yesterday. Before he could continue, we heard the sound of a door closing from the hallway behind us.

I turned and saw a man enter the hall and freeze in his tracks. Instantly, I recognized him as the man we'd come for. Our eyes met, and I know he must have realised who we were and why we were there. Wordlessly, he crossed the hall and scurried through another door to the main work area. Gibbs swore under his breath, knowing Umar had indeed been spooked.

I drew my weapon and tailed Umar while Gibbs and Ziva took up positions on the work floor.

Gibbs called out: "NCIS! Everybody get down!"

Ziva yelled: "On the floor! Now!"

Confused cries from the Kertek staff and muffled sounds of people dropping to the ground filtered through to my ears.

I paused at the open doorway Umar had gone through; back to the wall. I cautiously stole a peek into the work area to try to pin down my quarry. When I didn't see him, I realised he must have chosen a hiding place inside one of the cubicles.

A sudden gunshot rang out, and then I heard the sure sound of return fire. Obviously, Umar was armed and was engaged in a shootout with Gibbs and Ziva. I counted over a dozen shots, and then the sound of a body hitting the carpeted floor.

Knowing it was safe to approach, I entered the work area, weapon still extended just in case. I moved towards the cubicle where Umar's body lay. Six red spots stained his shirt. Blood trailed from the corner of his mouth; eyes open and staring, but he did not move.

Ziva and Gibbs were hurriedly making their way towards me. I knelt beside Umar to feel for a pulse. There was none.

I looked up at Gibbs, unsure how to measure my feelings. I'd experienced a rush of adrenalin from the firefight – even though I hadn't squeezed off a round – that was subsiding, and now I was able to think only one thing: Gibbs had snatched my prize away from me. Salman Umar had got too off easy. Six kill shots to the chest wasn't nearly punishment enough, and now that he was dead, we would never be able to learn if anyone else was involved. Yet Gibbs stared back at me, and I could not miss the look of accusation on his face, as if all of this were somehow my fault. I let go the breath I hadn't known I'd been holding, and felt utterly deflated.


	8. Exile

Gibbs quickly took charge of the situation in the aftermath of the shooting. He herded the shocked and stunned Kertek employees out of the room. McGee rejoined us, wordlessly acknowledging what had taken place. Mr. Selom pulled out his cell phone and left the room, leaving us alone for the moment. I hung back, leaning against one of the partitions, trying to stay out of the way; trying to avoid another misstep that would further prejudice Gibbs against me.

"We had no choice, Gibbs," Ziva said matter-of-factly, as Gibbs peered down at Umar's inert body.

"If we had not acted, he would have shot someone."

"We had a choice," Gibbs muttered as he slapped on some gloves. "I could have left her back at NCIS." He shot a brief glance in my direction.

I turned away, too exasperated to mount a comeback. I _wanted_ to scream at him that I wasn't the one who'd fired the fatal shots. _I_ wasn't the reason our only good lead on the investigation was a corpse.

"He was carrying this," Gibbs said of a laptop on Umar's desk. He palmed it off to Tim. "I want to know why."

Tim immediately went to work at an empty cubicle.

Kneeling beside Umar, Gibbs fished in the dead man's jacket pocket and found a folded piece of paper. After a quick glance of the contents, he passed it to Ziva. "It's Arabic. Read it."

The Mossad agent translated: " '_A covenant from Mecca sponsored by the Muslim Coalition for Peace._' The flyer from the conference on Friday...You think he was planning on attending?"

"I doubt that, Officer David," Mr. Selom interjected. He had returned from wherever it was he went. He passed me and approached Ziva and Gibbs. "Umar was quite vocal about his feelings towards _Shiites_. He used to argue quite a bit with Yahzeed on how they were destroying Iraq."

"Well, it would have been nice to have known that yesterday," Gibbs grumbled.

Mr. Selom rebutted that people had a right to their own opinions, and that Umar's were usually coloured by his own ignorance and prejudice. "Still, I can't believe that he would..." Selom trailed off.

"_Kill _over them?" Gibbs asked with disgust. He stood and stared at Selom for a few beats before his attention was broken by a sound coming from Umar's laptop.

"Boss, you should see this," McGee called out.

We all moved to his side, listening to a voice emanating from the laptop's speakers.

"Is it me, or does that sound like Yahzeed Fahad's voice?" Tim asked.

Gibbs asked him to turn up the volume. The voice from the computer was was reciting random words like '_Yankee',_ '_white',_ '_results' _and '_oriented'_.

Puzzled, I asked: "What the hell kind of program is that, McGee?"

Selom answered. "V.S. Twelve. It's still in development." He explained that is was a vocal simulator, allowing disabled individuals unable to talk to converse in a 'natural-sounding' voice.

"Like Stephen Hawking," Tim added in comprehension, "you type and the computer says the words."

"Yes," Selom assented, "but ours uses a 3-D model of the vocal cords to resonate cavities in the head creating a life-like sound. Umar was our main programmer."

"Would explain how Yahzeed was making phone calls from the dead," Ziva said.

"But I don't see how he could have done it," Selom replied. "It would have required a CAT scan of Yahzeed's throat and mouth."

We all looked silently at each other, wondering how, then, Yahzeed's voice could be coming from the V.S. Twelve. Having ready access to a facility with the required scanning machinery seemed rather unlikely. Clearly we were missing a vital step somewhere along the line. Gathering all the evidence from Kertek, we made our way back NCIS once again.

ooo

In Abby's lab, the answer to our puzzle became obvious when coupled with Ducky's findings from Yahzeed's autopsy. I remembered from the report that the ME had discovered latex while examining Yahzeed's detached head. At the time, he could not account for its presence, but speculated perhaps Yahzeed's killer had tried to make a mask of his face. With Mr. Abu Selom's description of what was necessary to create that 'life-like' sound on the V.S. Twelve, though, Abby and McGee explained how it was possible for a 'dead man' to speak.

The Goth-scientist was incredibly impressed by the sophistication of the voice simulator software. "For a terrorist whack-job, Umar was an amazing programmer," she said in awe. "Amazing enough to fool me!"

She demonstrated for us how the program could be used by a mute person to speak. "This creates Yahzeed's voice _flawlessly._" She marvelled. She clacked away on the keyboard, and the program spat out the words with all the natural cadences and tones one would expect from a live person.

"_Now you know why you found traces of latex in my throat and mouth, Abby,_" the computer-Yahzeed voice spoke.

"Why, yes, I do, Yahzeed!" Abby answered back. She continued the exchange by typing: "_What about you, Tony? And I like your shirt, by the way. It's sexy."_

"Thanks. It's from the George Peppard Collection," Tony answered seriously, looking down at his shirt in question. "Abby..." he said with a hint of admonition, since he'd allowed her to get a little too far off-topic.

Abby typed '_Sorry'_, and spoke the word after the computer 'said' it.

McGee explained further to us how Yahzeed's voice had been so perfectly replicated by the V.S. Twelve.

"Umar didn't need a CAT scan for Yahzeed. He poured hot latex down his throat and cast a mold."

Abby flinched and typed "_Ewww!_"

Tim continued: "All he had to do was laser-scan it into his computer; input the results into the program."

"Mystery solved," Abby concluded. 'Mystery', of course, of how I heard Yahzeed 'talking' to me on the phone the day Jim and Rick were killed.

"Umar was who you heard type-talking into the phone, Paula," Tony said gently. But there was still something wrong about that theory.

"The guy that I saw was _not_ carrying a laptop and typing," I declared. "I would have _definitely _ noticed that!"

"Means he wasn't alone."

Gibbs. Trust him to walk in at just the right moment and state the obvious. The hated Mossad officer was behind him.

"_Hey Gibbs,_" Abby typed, "_why no Caf-POW?_"

Gibbs just looked at her, and wordlessly ignored the question.

"_I'll shut up now._" Abby took her hands from the keyboard and was silent.

Gibbs turned to address me. "Your team _was_ set up, but they weren't the target."

"Yahzeed was," Ziva added. "They were trying to stop the _Sunni-Shia_ peace conference."

"By turning him into a suicide bomber..." I mused.

"It almost worked, Paula," Tony said.

"But luckily for us," Ziva said, "Yahzeed lost his head. Literally." She made a slashing motion across her throat.

"Well we don't know that it didn't work," I said with skepticism. "At this point, who's gonna show up to this thing?" Indeed, who in their right mind _would_?

"Oh, you'd be surprised, Cassidy," Gibbs replied, following the now-predictable pattern of shooting down anything I had to offer. He left the room without a second glance.

"We're not the only ones who refuse to bow down to terrorism," Ziva said.

"They're going ahead with the conference anyway?" McGee asked.

"Now that we've cleared Yahzeed..." Ziva said with a shrug. She seemed to think it was a foregone conclusion.

"But...we only got one of them," Abby said, putting voice to my own inner thoughts and fears. "What if somebody else tried to stop it?"

"We kill them, Abby," Ziva replied without hesitation.

"We _catch_ them," Tony corrected, sending Ziva a small, horrified look. "That's the preferred term!"

But in that split moment, I knew I had something in common with Ziva. I didn't just want to 'catch' whoever else was out there. "I like hers better," I said. I looked at her, acknowledging this surprising new-found level of kinship. She returned the look as she passed me on her way out. That unspoken bond somehow seemed to defuse all the prior animosity that had occurred between us.

ooo

We had a brief meeting in the bullpen before calling it quits for the evening.

"The Director just met with Abdul Wahid and Jamal Malik," Gibbs said. "She has offered our services for the peace conference on Friday as a precautionary measure, with the assistance of Metro police and the FBI. Should someone try to disrupt the event, we'll be there to put a lid on it. We'll be covering the senior clerics in attendance. Any questions?"

"No," Ziva and McGee replied. Tony and I both shook our heads.

"Good," Gibbs said with a nod. "It will be business-formal attire for the conference. That's all. Everybody go home. It's been a long day."

Everyone made a move for their belongings, but I was worried. That unknown factor; that feeling that there was someone else out there who could still pose a threat was bothering me. We had Umar's laptop. If he wasn't the one who had been type-talking to set up the ambush that claimed the lives of Jim and Rick, then someone else was. I thought it was foolish to continue with the conference. But orders were orders, and I was going to follow mine, and besides: we still had two days before the conference to turn up new leads. That would be our focus tomorrow, surely.

With that in mind, I started to make a move for the elevator to leave for the evening.

"Hang on, Cassidy," Gibbs put a hand on my shoulder to stop me. "The Director wants to see you."

I turned and looked at him, searching for any clues as to the reason for the sudden request, but his face was unreadable.

"Why?" I asked. He simply blinked and gave small shrug in reply. He left me standing there with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Had he filed an official complaint about me? Did this have something to do with went down at Kertek this morning? Had he somehow placed the blame for Umar's death squarely on my shoulders? Was I in for an official reprimand? Then I decided I was being irrational. If anything, Gibbs wasn't a tattler. And he wouldn't have included me in the meeting outlining the Director's intent for our services at Friday's conference if I was about to be suspended from duty.

Nevertheless, I made the climb up the stairs to Director Shepard's office with trepidation.

In the anteroom, Cynthia greeted me with a friendly smile. "Go right in, Special Agent Cassidy. The Director's been expecting you." A measure of calm came over me. I knocked gently to announce my presence and opened the door.

Director Shepard was seated at her desk, impeccably dressed in a blouse with a tailored black pantsuit. I felt quite shabby in comparison with my less-than-flattering burns and scrapes, and casual attire. Then I remembered that she had the reputation of being an excellent field agent. She'd probably experienced her share of bumps and bruises along the way. She must have had days when she wasn't as put-together and pristine as she was now.

"Agent Gibbs said you wanted to see me, Director?"

"Yes. Have a seat, Paula," she said warmly. I closed the door and obediently pulled up a chair and sat down.

She shuffled a few files on her desk and pulled her glasses off before saying anything.

When she looked up, she gave me a small, sad smile. "How are you holding up?"

"As well as can be expected," I answered.

"It's not everyday I get to meet with my agents one-on-one," she said. "I wanted to personally see how you were doing since I haven't had the opportunity to do so until now."

"I appreciate your concern, Director," I said.

"I also wanted to tell you how sorry I am for the loss of Agents Hall and Nelson, and that in no way does this Agency hold you responsible for their deaths."

"Thank you," I replied, relieved this wasn't going to be an impromptu performance appraisal.

"You know, of course, you have this Agency's full resources at your disposal. I know you insisted on being a part of this investigation, but have you given some consideration to availing yourself of our Agency Psychologists to help you deal with any lingering issues you may have?"

"Not yet," I answered. A talk with the shrink should have been mandatory, and I was relieved that thus far they hadn't forced it on me. I wondered now again if her concern was based on something Gibbs might have said. Did he hint that he thought my performance on the job was slipping? Did _everyone_ think I was letting my emotions affect my decisions? That's when I decided to play by one of Gibbs' rules.

I looked directly at Shepard. "I don't have time to stop and grieve," I said. "Not until I can be sure I've put every single person responsible for the deaths of my men in the ground."

I saw her mouth briefly twist into an ironic half-smile. "I'm not going to force you to see someone, Paula," she finally said, "but I am going to ask you to take tomorrow and Thursday off."

"What? Why?!" I spat out. "Am I being suspended?"

"No. This is not a suspension."

"Then what is it?"

"You _do_ need the time to grieve, Paula, whether you think you do or not. What happened to you and your team on Sunday was traumatic. Don't downplay it. Take these two days. Come back on Friday. Be ready for the peace conference."

I opened my mouth to protest.

"I mean it, Paula," Director Shepard said firmly. "I've told Agent Gibbs not to expect you for duty until Friday. Go home. Get some rest. Talk with your family and your friends, a psychologist, a minister or chaplain; whatever suits you. The rest of the team will handle things while you're gone."

By that time, I knew arguing the matter would be pointless. Director Shepard had made her decision, and I had to abide by it. I stood in silence, mumbled an insincere thanks, and left her office.


	9. Tribute

It was twilight when I reached my apartment building. I was relieved that I hadn't seen any reporters lingering around the premises as I left the underground parking structure. That would have been one annoyance I would definitely not have had the patience to deal with at this time.

I was still fuming over being benched, even if Director Shepard's decision was well-intentioned. Just what on Earth did she think I was going to do for two days - eat _bon-bons_ and watch soap operas? I was already feeling antsy just thinking about the next 48 hours of inactivity.

"Oh, good evening, Paula," I heard a voice call out as I entered the lobby and grabbed my mail from my box.

I looked up and saw that it was my landlord, Robert Hatfield.

"Hi, Bob," I replied tiredly.

Bob's a very competent landlord; just not a very engaging conversationalist, and I half suspect he's got a crush on me. He's always solicitous of me: asking an inordinate number of times about whether my plumbing and heating and air conditioning are in working order. He's very tall, lanky, with a receding hairline and nicotine-stained fingers and teeth. There's a constant odor of stale cigarette smoke and tobacco about him. I've never actually seen him light up, since building regulations prohibit smoking indoors. He probably sneaks outside when it suits him to indulge his habit.

"I, uh, I've been meaning to talk to you," he said, his eyes blinking nervously behind his thick, horn-rimmed glasses. "I h-heard about what happened to you and your people on Sunday. I'm so sorry. Are you okay?" He gestured to my arm and face.

I held my arm self-consciously.

"You look like you were hurt," Bob said, with a tone I found slightly irritating. "It must have been terrifying!"

"I'm fine, Bob," I lied, "just really exhausted right now."

"You can tell me about it, you know," he replied eagerly. "You don't have to keep it all bottled up."

_Landlord-cum-psychologist?_ I thought..._Not likely._

"We've been working really hard to find the people responsible," I said, absently flipping through my mail, which consisted of bills. "That's pretty much all I can say about it."

"Oh, sure," he drawled, "of course. Important job! Confidential stuff."

"That's right," I said with a nod, making strides towards the elevator that would take me to my floor. "Good night, Bob."

"Good night!" he called back. "Oh, Paula, just so you know – there's been some reporters hanging around, but, I told 'em you know, that you were busy and that I didn't know when you'd be back. I told them they'd better not think they could spend all day parked around here waiting for you or I'd have them towed. So, they left."

"Thanks Bob," I said, turning back to face him. I was actually genuinely grateful. "That was very thoughtful of you. Reporters are the last people I want to talk with."

He grinned at me, ridiculously pleased with himself. "Aw, it was nothing, really," he said ingratiatingly. He averted his glance; his cheeks turning pink. "Glad I could be of some help. What are landlords for?"

The elevator _dinged_, and I stepped in, once again bidding him goodnight.

I had to let out a laugh I'd been suppressing as I rode up to my level. I couldn't help but remember the time I'd told Tony that I was seeing a lawyer named 'Bob'. I fabricated a whole persona about this make-believe boyfriend who was very rich and had box seats for the Redskins. There hadn't been any 'Boyfriend Bob' at the time, just 'Landlord Bob', who happened to be the first male to come to mind. It was a successful snow-job. Tony rose to the bait I dangled in front of him as I embellished that 'Bob' also drove a red Ferrari - _"like Magnum"_...Payback for him snatching my birth-control pills, and for just being overly nosy.

I went through my usual after-work process of stowing my weapon in a safe place and peeled off my work clothes in favor of more comfortable attire.

_Two days of nothing to do but sit at home and wait...Two days of sitting on the sidelines as the person responsible for setting up my team remains free to either continue his campaign of terror, or make an escape._

I couldn't stand it. I paced around my apartment restlessly, pondering whether or not it would be wise to show up at NCIS, anyway, as a show of defiance.

But no. I somehow felt I was probably skating on thin ice, in spite of what Director Shepard had said. If I showed up tomorrow, she might just very well suspend me for insubordination. And that would mean I'd have no way of avenging Rick and Jim, period.

So what, now? It occurred to me I'd been unconsciously ignoring my living room area, which was where one of my telephone extensions was installed. I could feel the stirrings of anxiety as I eyed the answering machine. Of course, it was still blinking obstinately, reminding me that it was probably filled with messages I had yet to respond to.

With a sigh of resignation, I sank into the chair beside the phone and pressed _play_.

Sure enough, there were several from reporters.

"_This is Carl Watts from the _Post._.."_

"_Hi, I'm Sarah Stillman and I write for the _Washington Times_..."_

"..._we'd like to run a story_..."

"..._call me back at_..._"_

"..._to do a _ZNN_-exclusive interview_..."

I deleted them. I was not going to comment about an on-going investigation. Besides, the public really did have an unhealthy fascination with personal tragedy. I wasn't going to bare my soul to strangers, and in any case, our story would be buried in the recycling bin by next week; forgotten.

_Buried._ Oh, Lord... I hadn't even heard about funeral plans for Jim and Rick, though their families must be making arrangements since Ducky had released their bodies.

_It should be _my_ body, too_.

I felt the sting of unshed tears behind my lids. Angrily, I squeezed my eyes shut to try to stop the flow. _You've already _had_ a breakdown_, I told myself sternly. _Tears aren't going to help anybody!_

With a resolute shake of my head, I started playing back the rest of the messages. Another handful were from various friends and colleagues from NCIS.

"_Pauls, hi...it's Stevie_," came another message. The soft voice was that of my sister, Stephanie, the baby in my family. In spite of our age difference, we were really close growing up. She had still been in high school when I was a Junior at Georgetown. Even though we didn't talk much on the phone at that time, Stevie knew I was pretty spooked back when serial killer Kyle Boone was on the loose. She was the second person, after Mom, who called me after my deadly encounter with Adam O'Neill.

With affection, I listened on:

"_I talked to Mom and Jennifer after Brian called and told me what happened. I know you probably don't want to talk right now, but I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Call me when you can, alright? Love ya, sis_," she said, and ended the message.

It was still fairly early on the West Coast. Stevie would be working late with her job at the bank, so she probably wasn't home yet. The only thing I dislike more than lengthy telephone conversations is playing 'telephone tag'. My chat with my sister would need to wait.

The next few messages were from more concerned colleagues and friends.

"_Hey, Paula! Stan Burley here..._"

Stan! Wow. I hadn't talked to him in ages. I'd met him a few times over drinks and various NCIS functions. He was kind enough to give me pointers on how to survive life on-board an aircraft carrier before I shipped out on the _USS Kennedy_ during my stint as NCIS Agent afloat. In his recorded message, he offered the expected condolences and concern for my well-being.

By the end of Stan's message, I realised I was feeling restless. I had to get out of my apartment and be around people. But where to go? Memories of balmy nights and salsa music filtered through from my time at GITMO. No dancing tonight for me, I thought morosely, not with my messed-up arm and face.

Well, if I was going to go out anywhere, the current 'comfortable attire' I'd changed into when I walked through the door wasn't going to cut it. Even if I didn't end up some place fancy, I didn't want to look like a slob in sweatpants and an NCIS T-shirt.

ooo

Almost unconsciously, I found myself navigating my car to a small place that largely catered to local LEOs. It's one of the places I'd seen Stan Burley, and as a bonus, they mixed a great Cosmo.

The bar was dark, mostly lit by neon signs. It wasn't terribly busy at this hour. Maybe a lot of the local Metro cops were still on tour; I wasn't sure. Certainly the after-tour crowd at present was looking thin. I counted five other patrons; two in uniform.

The bartender lazily looked up at me from wiping the counter top. A late season hockey game flickered on the television mounted on the wall. Some unidentifiable tune was playing from the sound system.

"Cosmo," I said, when I approached the bar. I didn't know this bartender's name; maybe he was new to the place. He quietly set about shaking together the vodka, triple sec, lime and cranberry juice. I was pleased to note he was using fresh lime juice, not lime cordial.

The bartender presented my drink to me with a hint of interest in his eyes. I guess he noticed my bandaged hand and my face, but he wisely didn't ask about it.

"Thanks," I said. I took my Cosmo, briefly admired the bright pink colour, and took a gulp. I felt myself start to relax and turned away from the bar. I don't know why I did, but I walked right up to the tribute wall that was directly off to the side.

'In The Line Of Duty: The Fallen' read the bold, capital letters. A mix of old and new pictures of uniformed officers, smiling portraits, and even a German Shepherd from a K9 Unit stared back at me. Their individual stories of heroism were a mystery to me, but they were nevertheless memorialized here. I was going to have to get Jim and Rick's pictures up sometime. We'd come here together once or twice after a hard days' work. They deserved to be remembered among these honoured dead.

_And who will remember you and place your mug on this wall after you're gone?_

In my minds' eye, I could see that picture from my personnel files, the one taken shortly before my GITMO assignment, framed and stuck on the wall. It's not the greatest picture; I'm unsmiling and serious.

I took another gulp, almost spilling the contents on my blouse. I clumsily wiped at my moist lips and dripping chin, and turned away from the tributes.

It had been a mistake to come here. I had wanted to be sociable, but instead I was miserable. I slurped the last of my Cosmo. It may have been my imagination, but it was leaving a bitter taste in my mouth and turning my empty stomach sour. The twist of orange peel at the bottom of the cocktail glass sat soggy and limp when I returned to the counter to pay.

As he accepted my money, the bartender started to say something, but stopped before he could get it out. He seemed troubled about something, but I didn't need to hang around any longer to see if he'd change his mind.

"Excuse me, Miss," he called out as I was about to reach the exit. I craned my neck back to look at him. Guess he had something to say, after all.

"Me?"

"Yeah," he said. He leaned over the counter, looked side to side as if he were making sure no one was looking. Then he beckoned me closer.

"What, did I forget something?" I said, feeling slightly flustered.

"This is a cop hang-out, you know," he said in a hushed tone.

"Uh-huh," I said with a raised eyebrow, "...and?"

"And if you've got someone that needs taking care of, you can let one of 'em know."

"What on earth are you talking about?!" I said with exasperation.

"I've seen it all in this job. You don't have to be _his_ punching bag, lady."

"_Whose_ punching bag?" Then it dawned on me. He thought I was a victim of domestic abuse! "Oh, you mean my- no, no... No one's using me as a punching bag. I got these injuries on the job."

"You're a cop?" He asked, surprise evident.

"NCIS," I said with a wry smile.

"Navy," he snorted. "Shoulda known."

With a short laugh, I left for good. As I exited, a few plainclothes LEOs were making their way in. One woman took a hard look at me, stopped in her tracks and said with a straight face: "You need to leave him, honey!"

Her companions urged her onwards, embarrassed at her unsolicited outburst.

I shook my head. Maybe it was domestic-abuse awareness week in local LEO circles, or something. I had to admit, though, that after a few days of poor treatment from certain persons at work, it was nice that perfect strangers cared about my safety.

My drive home was a quiet one. After a less-than-healthy choice of take-out Chinese that I ate as I watched the late-night news, I slipped into bed.

Tomorrow, I decided finally, I'd write the letters I promised myself I'd write.


	10. Atonement

A/N: This is almost the end of the tale, folks. It is most certainly the end for a certain NCIS agent. I do plan on posting at least 2 epilogue-type chapters just to tie everything up. Hope you 'enjoy', in spite of the tragic content.

**10.**

It was late, by my usual standards, when I awoke Wednesday morning. I'd intentionally turned off my alarm so as not to be roused earlier than necessary. If Director Shepard truly didn't want me in until Friday, a few extra hours of sleep today could only be beneficial. Besides, I probably needed it. I didn't feel as achy this morning as I'd felt on mornings previous this week.

I enjoyed a much more leisurely breakfast than my hectic schedule normally allowed. I slowly sipped my coffee while I read the newspaper. The pages were blessedly devoid of any reference to Sunday's tragedy, but there was an item tucked away in the back about a shootout at a "small computer software firm that caters to handicapped individuals". The article stated that the lone gunman had been killed before harm came to anyone else in the building.

They were referring to Kertek, of course. Journalists had not yet made any connection between the deceased Salman Umar and Yahzeed Fahad. I wondered if they ever would, since the piece itself was little more than a blurb; something a reader would skim with passing interest. In a way, I was relieved no reporter, eager for a scoop, had gone digging with this one. Local news hounds seemed to have given up harassing me since no new messages had been registered. I didn't want any renewed interest.

After putting away the breakfast dishes, I settled in at a desk in an alcove I have set up as a sort of unofficial office-space. It was time to tackle the project I'd assigned myself. For hours I sat, composing letters to several individuals, both family and friends. I let my thoughts run free, pen scrolling swiftly on pages of stationery I always have on hand.

_Dear Mom and Dad_...

_Dear Stevie..._

_Dear Uncle Hy..._

_Dear Brian..._

_Dear Jennifer..._

The clichéd words I'd spoken to Tony on Monday were in my mind very prominently. It somehow seemed important to tell my parents and my siblings how much I loved them. Mom and Dad hadn't originally been too thrilled with my decision to study at Georgetown, and had serious reservations when I advised them of my intentions to join up with NCIS. But they knew I loved the challenge and the thrill each new assignment brought me. Dad had moved the family every two or three years during his early career as an engineer - until Mom had had enough and he settled us down in California. That early experience must have contributed to my sense of wanderlust.

When I was done writing to them, I addressed the letter to my parents: _Mrs. D.J. Cassidy, 2792 Avenida Simi, Simi Valley CA, 93065,_ knowing Mom collected the mail, and that she would obviously pass the letter on to Dad, as she always had in the past.

_D.J..._ For Donna-Julia. For as long as I could remember, 'D.J.' has been her nickname. She probably thought her full name was too stuffy, or maybe she opted for a more 'American' styled moniker as a new immigrant. She's never told me. My Dad, Reginald, has always been 'Reg', or 'Reggie' if people were being especially informal. I could picture the two of them, reading my letter in their kitchen. My mother might perhaps wistfully reiterate her worry for my safety on the job, and my father might do his best to reassure her...

I wrote the same address for my widowed uncle. He'd suffered a stroke years ago that left him weak on one side, and unable to work. His good-for-nothing son, my cousin, Reilly, hadn't the compassion to support his father when he lost his house. My father stepped in and graciously opened his door to his brother. On more than one occasion, I've written to Uncle Hy that even if his rotten son can't quite bring himself to reciprocate the love he's received, he'll always be my favorite uncle, and I love him.

In my letters to Amy Nelson and to Tom and Mary Hall, I poured out my heart and emotions to them. I tried my very best to explain that if I could re-live those final moments, I would exchange places with Jim and Rick without hesitation. Such words would be of little real comfort, but after signing my name to the pages, it was my ultimate hope they'd know I was being genuine... and that they'd be able to forgive me. It had been my decision to take the Hotline duty. Their fate had hinged on a simple 'yes' or 'no' answer from me. As I sealed and stamped the envelopes, I still didn't think I'd ever be able to forgive _myself._

Almost as an afterthought, I pulled a new, blank sheet of stationery.

_Dear_...

I paused, pen hovering over the single word, pondering the appropriate way I should address the person I wanted to write. '_Agent Gibbs'? 'Jethro'? 'Leroy'? _I put down the pen. Yes, there were some things I'd been wanting to say to him for a long time. I'd never quite worked up the nerve to say them to his face, and the continued tension between the two of us probably ensured I'd never say what I wanted, at least in person. It wasn't that I was afraid of, or intimidated by Gibbs. Far from it. Something inside me just kept telling me that the older agent was, and would always be, closed to me. But then that was his reputation, wasn't it? Being an unapologetic bastard? I sometimes wondered what could make a man like that...he couldn't have always been that way, could he? Whatever his reasons, I honestly wished things had been different.

Well, not that it mattered. After this peace conference, it was unlikely our paths would continue to cross. He'd probably continue to think I was a screw-up, no matter what I did. I was back to my earlier dilemma about what I'd be doing with my life _after _all this blew over. And I was still no closer to a resolution. Maybe I _did_ need to talk with a shrink: explore my options, which were looking more like a closed door with nothing on the other side but emptiness.

***

The alarm jarred me awake. With a groan of protest, I clumsily reached out to shut off the screeching device. I rolled over to the edge of the bed and sat up, slowly opening my eyes. Today was Friday. I was due back at NCIS HQ today.

The peace conference was today.

A sense of foreboding suddenly started creeping in, clouding my mind with a fog of confusion. It settled heavily on me like an invisible shroud. I felt haunted; chilled, and I involuntarily shivered.. I could almost feel it in my bones that something terrible was going to happen.

Tuesday's events – the shootout at Kertek – had been so anti-climactic, it was as if another full-blown disaster had only been staved off. Postponed until today? I cringed at my own thoughts...

With a stretch and a yawn, I stood and ambled slowly to the bathroom. My head was swirling with uncertainty and worry. Had Tony and the others uncovered anything more in the past two days? Had they any idea who'd really been type-talking to me the day Jim and Rick met their fate? I ran a weary hand over sleep-filled eyes. The small butterfly bandage over my eyebrow slid right off on my fingers. The wound was looking more like a deep scratch now, but most of the soreness was gone.

After a brisk shower, I dressed in attire appropriate for the conference and protection duty we were to undertake. I examined my hand, which was looking much better. I nevertheless applied a clean dressing, and hoped that if anything at all happened, it would not impede my ability to fire my weapon. I trashed the plastic wrapping from the dry-cleaners I used yesterday when I realised my favourite black blazer with a faint pin-stripe needed laundering. 'Dry clean only', of course.

I ate a hurried breakfast, all the while noting my stomach's protests. (_Why were my nerves so raw_?) I grabbed my badge and my Sig, locked my apartment door and made the drive to the Navy Yard once again. Along the way, I stopped at the post office to mail my bulk of letters, since I'd forgotten them during Thursday's errand to the dry cleaners' place.

***

The plasma screen displayed images of the clerics we were to be covering. Ziva flicked by them all, calling out their names and announcing the assignments as she did so.

Sheik Abu Taled Yusef, senior _Sunni _cleric, would be Tony's responsibility for the day. Sheik Ali Bashir, senior _Shia_ cleric, was my assignment. I looked intently at his picture and committed his face to memory. The third and most senior cleric in attendance was Imam Abdul Al-Maliki.

"He is mine," Agent Gibbs announced, as he strode into the bullpen. He then stated his desire for Ziva to 'float' between all three, depending on what the situation may call for.

The Mossad officer commented that the best way to disrupt the conference would be to target one of the three men; Gibbs answered her concerns by pledging that we weren't going to let anything of the sort happen. It gnawed at my insides that they had not turned up any new leads since Tuesday. Abby had been reduced to meticulously reviewing what scant fingerprint evidence we had from the laptop in hopes of uncovering something helpful. As of that moment, I knew she had nothing. Any potential 'disruption' to the conference was still an unknown disruption.

Agent McGee piped up: "Boss, what about me?"

Gibbs handed the young man a stack of papers listing the names of the conference attendees. He instructed McGee to run down all the names, looking for any links to terrorist groups.

McGee frowned in dismay. "Um, looks to be over three hundred names here, and the conference starts in less than six hours." Clearly, he wasn't too thrilled being saddled with the mind-numbing busy-work.

"Yeah, uh-huh..." Gibbs said dismissively. "Why are you still standing there, McGee?" He didn't seem particularly interested in hearing the complaint as he retrieved his badge and weapon from his desk.

"Right," McGee said, resigned to his fate, and went off to begin his task.

Ziva asked if we would be picking the clerics up at their hotels one hour before the conference, but Gibbs responded in the negative; that there was a slight change in plans.

"We pick them up now. Little field trip."

He looked over at me. "They want to hold a ceremony for Yahzeed and Cassidy's team."

Stunned by this revelation, I asked: "What _kind_ of ceremony?"

"A memorial," Gibbs answered simply.

"Where?" asked Tony.

Gibbs held out the keys to the car and dropped them into my hand. "Where they died," he responded.

***

We arrived at the gutted store for what I hoped would be the last time I'd ever have to see the place. Tony and I ventured in to make sure it was clear of danger. Throughout the drive to collect the clerics, with the assistance of local metro PD, I'd been thinking about how surprised I'd been when I heard that they wanted to hold a memorial service for my team: men they'd never even met. I wasn't sure what it was all going to entail, but I supposed to them it held some sort of religious significance.

My own knowledge of Muslim beliefs and practices had been mainly gleaned from my appointment at Gitmo. And not too many of those detainees were particularly interested in holding memorial services for dead NCIS agents. My own religious beliefs and practices were rather non-existent as my parents had been nominally Catholic, much to the dismay of my devout grandparents. I wasn't even sure what I believed.

I sighed as I stared up at the destroyed ceiling, wiring and ducts exposed and blackened with soot. "I've never been much for praying," I admitted to Tony, "but after this, I..."

"Hall and Nelson were good men," he broke in.

"They were the best," I declared. _Were_. Now, no more. An unwelcome wave of sadness swept over me. Any minute I knew I was going to be weeping again. I breathed in and let it out to calm myself. "I could have saved them."

"Paula," Tony said in contradiction, "that's not true."

But I had to continue. I had to make him understand. "I could've turned down the weekend duty. There's just no way we should have had it two weeks in a row!"

"It was supposed to be us," Tony said quietly.

I looked at him. "'Us', what?"

"It was our team that was supposed to take it."

His words hit me like a ton of bricks. I stood there, silent, as it sank in. Oh, God. Why had it never occurred to me? It was supposed to be Tony, Gibbs, Ziva and Tim on Hotline duty? Instead of my team, it would have been _Gibbs'_ team lying dead on the floor?...I couldn't stop from feeling shell-shocked and guilty for being so selfish! How could I have been so self-absorbed? I realized it didn't matter _who_ had pulled the Hotline duty. It would mean we'd have lost them, too. For all our differences, I knew I'd be mourning Gibbs. For the past we'd had, I knew I'd be mourning Tony. I fleetingly wondered if either man held the same sentiments about me.

"Oh...I mean...it doesn't matter," I mumbled. "Nothing does." I needed a distraction. I walked over to the corner where some of the portable lights were set up. I had no real reason to, but I picked one of them up and moved it further down the wall. "I was supposed to be in here. I know it."

Feeling at loose ends, I just stood there, looking around the empty room again. "But...here I am," I concluded, still heartsick over the implications of Tony's revelation.

We were startled by the sudden appearance of Ziva as the hidden door sprung open.

"Ha!" she cried. "Very clever! This side is clear." She stepped over from the other room. She looked at us with a satisfied smile on her face. The door slammed shut behind her, and I saw her jump back into a defensive stance, hand over her weapon.

"I didn't think anything could make you jump, Officer David," I said with genuine respect, making sure I pronounced her name properly this time.

"That was merely a reflex," she responded.

"In America, we call that jumping," I parried, not unkindly.

"In Mossad," she said, her expression growing serious, "we call that the difference between life and death."

I looked at her, and nodded in assent. Whatever it was that had initially motivated her earlier snide remarks and disdainful behavior was totally gone, now, and I was glad for the peace; for the tacit reconciliation. I glanced over at a silent Tony, and informed the pair that I was going to advise Gibbs that everything was clear.

Outside, I could see the clerics waiting with the surviving members of the Muslim Coalition for Peace: Abdul Wahid and Jamal Malik. I approached Gibbs and advised him if they were ready to start, we'd cleared the rooms.

Tony appeared behind me. "They ready, Boss?"

Gibbs nodded, and motioned to Abdul Wahid that we could proceed with the memorial service.

The clerics, assisted by Malik and Wahid, carried in a collapsible table and folding chairs for the ceremony. We filed into the room behind them. Tony asked Gibbs how long the whole thing was supposed to take, and Gibbs responded by saying it would be longer than if he helped them set up. Tony took his cue and went over to lend a hand.

Gibbs turned to Ziva and told her he wanted her out front when the ceremony started. I suppose he felt we needed a pair of eyes outside to warn of any possible threats. She departed right away.

"What about me?" I asked.

Gibbs turned his attention my way. "I didn't bring you here for security."

I was feeling oddly uncomfortable at these words. If not security...then what? Was he depriving me of my duties? Some sort of punishment? "Look," I said under my breath, "I know I screwed up at Kertek Computers, but I'm-"

"Say a prayer, Cassidy," Gibbs interjected gently, "for your team."

Surprised at his request, I didn't know how to respond.

"We'll take the heavy lifting on this one," he said, and turned back to observe the preparations.

_Say a prayer_? I hardly knew where to start. Would God, or Allah or whatever deity was really out there hear anything I'd say? These clerics were readying to honor Jim, Rick and Yahzeed, innocent victims of a war. Their faith in a higher power obviously meant something important to them. I closed my eyes and tried to quiet my thoughts.

_O God...if there really _is_ a God...and I'd like to think there is...I'm sorry that I've been so selfish to think that only _my_ team mattered, and for hating Yahzeed Fahad. I want to believe that their deaths meant something. I hope they didn't suffer. Please, if there's any way I can atone for what happened...I don't want to hurt like this anymore..._

My thoughts were broken by Abdul Wahid's words as the clerics sat at the table, opening their Korans. "This was Yahzeed's dream," he stated earnestly, "to show the world that these terrorist groups do not speak for us. We thank you for making it a reality."

"Well, at least something good's going to come from all of this," Tony said, while Gibbs' cell phone started ringing.

Gibbs moved away from the table and answered the call. "Yeah, Gibbs," he said. I looked at him with interest as he listened to the caller. His face didn't betray a single emotion over what he was hearing, but I sensed it had to be something important. He snapped the cell phone shut and in two strides he was at Wahid's side.

"Put your hands on top of your head," he instructed the other man, roughly gripping his arms and twisting them upwards to restrain him.

"Boss?!" Tony said questioningly. The clerics stood up in surprise and panic.

"It's one of them, DiNozzo," Gibbs said. "The prints on Umar's laptop match the painting gear."

I quickly stepped forward towards the clerics while Gibbs gave Wahid a pat-down.

"_What_ laptop?!" Wahid cried in confusion. Clearly, he hadn't a clue what Gibbs was talking about.

"Where is Jamal Malik?" Gibbs asked, realizing Wahid was not the one we were seeking. Everyone in the room cast hurried glances all around.

Jamal Malik was nowhere in sight.

"He was here a minute ago!" Wahid replied. I backed up towards the wall; hand sliding to my Sig.

"Ziva!" Gibbs called out. "It's Malik! Find him."

I heard the hidden door swinging open even as Tony yelled: "Behind you!"

I whirled around and came face-to-face with Jamal Malik. My brain registered his cold, impassive expression; the bomb strapped around his waist; the detonator gripped in his right hand.

My brain was running at a million miles a second. I knew that if he even sighted the flash of a weapon, he'd blow us all up before we could shoot him. I had no way of knowing if it was a dead man's switch. So even if one of us managed to get a shot off, there were no guarantees the bomb wouldn't explode anyway. There was only one way to make sure he didn't get a chance to kill anyone: take him down, physically. Before I even knew my feet were moving, I jumped through the open door. I thought that if Malik managed to throw the switch now, maybe my body would take the brunt of the blast; maybe shield the others from serious harm and injury. I tackled him solidly, and landed on top of him at we hit the floor. I heard the door slam shut behind us.

I heard Tony's muffled cry: "Paula!" and frenzied pounding on the wall. I frantically grabbed at the detonator with my bandaged left hand.

"_Allahu akbar!_" Malik screamed, as he armed the device. I fought against his struggles; tried to wrest the beeping detonator from him as we thrashed around.

Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw two persons who could not possibly be standing there.

_Jimmy? Rick?_ They were looking down at me, as fresh and unscathed as if they'd never been killed in the first place. How could this be? I forgot about the enemy I was fighting for a split second and gazed in awe at the apparition before me.

Malik detonated his bomb.

In that split second, I glimpsed eternity. I saw everything I had ever done in my life: good and bad, and I saw that this, my last act, would do far more good than anything else that had ever come before. And at last I understood why Jim and Rick were there: I had been right all along. I wasn't able to be with them when they died like I knew I should have, so they had come to be with _me_. My last regret was that my family and friends would receive my letters I sent only after I had died.

I finally let go as the explosion consumed me.


	11. Aftermath

The building shook as he heard the almost deafening explosion on the other side of the wall. Chunks of plaster rained down among other larger pieces of debris from the already compromised ceiling.

_Malik just blew himself up!_ Tony thought in a panic. _He blew himself up with Paula in there _with_ him!_

The roar of the blast retreated. His ears were still ringing, but he leaned his head against the wall in a vain attempt to hear something; praying he'd hear a cough, a sigh, a groan, a shuffle of limbs; _anything _that would indicate she had somehow survived. But the only sound was an almost musical tinkle, a _pinging _echo that reached a crescendo and then lulled to complete silence as quickly as it had risen. Horrified, he realized those noises had been caused by the bomb's nails and ball-bearings battering the walls, rolling and skittering across the concrete floor. He'd seen first-hand what a bomb and pieces of flying shrapnel had done to the bodies of Hall, Nelson and Fahad...

Tony slammed his open hand against the bricks in futility and resignation, head still pressed to the wall. But there was nothing more. That was it. There was no possible way to deny the awful truth now; no way to rewind those last 10 seconds and produce a different outcome.

Paula was dead.

_No! _Tony thought furiously, fighting tears._ She was alive only a minute ago. This can't have happened. Not again_. _First Kate; now Paula._

Both had been killed in such close proximity to him, and both times Death had turned a blind eye; breezed right past him to claim a victim in a violent and untimely fashion. And both times he'd been helpless to do anything about it.

He didn't know if his mind was playing tricks on him, but even amidst the acrid smell of smoke and fire, he thought he caught one last, lingering scent of her _Escada_...

***

"Agent Gibbs is on line for you, Director," Cynthia Sumner's voice carried through the inter-comm. "He says it's urgent."

"Thanks, Cynthia," Director Jenny Shepard said, and picked up the call in her office. "You have an update for me, Agent Gibbs?"

"Yeah. We need to call off the peace conference."

"Why?" Jenny asked. "We've planned full protection for the clerics which I know you're more than capable of handling...Has there been a new threat?"

"Oh, you could say that," Gibbs replied enigmatically. "You know those calls you don't like to have to make in your capacity as director of NCIS?"

"Jethro..." There was a note of warning in her voice. She hated being strung along.

"You're going to have to make another one."

"Damnit, Jethro. What the hell happened?" Jenny sputtered, realizing the implications of his words. "Who?!"

"Cassidy." Gibbs answered. "Jamal Malik pulled a vanishing act." He thought fleetingly of the irony of his words, given that the building had once housed a magic/joke shop. "Then he showed up with a bomb strapped around himself."

"My God," Jenny whispered, gripping the edge of her desk.

"Agent Cassidy...took him down with a flying tackle. They ended up in the other room and the door shut behind them. Bastard knew he was caught. Knew he wouldn't be able to get at the clerics or anybody else...son of a bitch still threw the switch, anyway."

"Jethro, was anyone else hurt?" Jenny asked quietly, fearing more unwelcome news.

"No, everyone else is safe and accounted for. But you'll need to send in Ducky and another team to take this one. I'm sending DiNozzo home. I'll hold down the fort with Ziva 'til the replacements arrive."

Gibbs hung up without even waiting for the Director to confirm his request.

Outside, Ziva had felt the shock-wave; heard the boom and the subsiding rumbles. Her frantic mission to track down the suddenly missing Jamal Malik on Gibbs' shouted orders was instantly abandoned. She had one thought now: the safety of her team, and she rushed back towards them. With a small sense of relief, she realised the blast had come from the _other_ store, not the one where everyone had gathered. Still, she had to make sure...

"_Gibbs! Tony!_" she shouted from the entrance into the dusty room. She saw them inside, apparently unharmed by whatever device had been detonated. Ziva did a quick head-count to assuage her fears. _One, two, three clerics...Gibbs, Tony, Abdul Wahid_... _but no sign of Jamal Malik - or Paula..._

"Where is Agent Cassidy?" Ziva asked, troubled by the absence of the other woman. A sudden knot of anxiety twisted in her stomach. She caught Tony's stricken face and his shocked, wide-eyed expression. His silence was all the answer she needed.

Ziva turned to Gibbs. He was on his cell phone, talking to someone; Director Shepard, from the sound of it. The clerics and Wahid were huddled together, the shock of the event rendering them speechless. Already she could hear emergency sirens blaring, no doubt responding to the explosion and fire.

She turned her gaze once again to Tony's dust-speckled form, seeking answers that no one seemed eager or able to provide. "What happened?"

"It was Malik." Tony's voice was hard as stone. "He had this... bomb strapped to him. He was just coming through the secret door. Paula did the only thing she could to save everyone. She...she charged at him..." He stopped, his face contorting, unable to continue the telling of the awful event that had just transpired.

Ziva didn't need to be told anything more. She mentally filled in the blanks: Malik had a bomb... Paula charged at him...She must have shoved him back into the other room, through the hidden door, and died with him when he detonated the bomb.

She thought now of how she'd been purposely insulting to Paula with cutting sarcasm earlier on. Her intention had been to distract the grieving, angry agent, hoping to be a place Paula could focus her anger. Gibbs had pointed out that far from being thankful for such a gesture, Paula would probably hate her for life. _I was willing to live with a lifetime of hatred from you if it helped you get through losing your team..._ _If I'd only known 'for life' would mean less than a week for you, Paula...At least we came to an understanding near the end, didn't we?_

She observed Tony, knowing he was deeply affected by what had just happened. He looked so helpless and forlorn, but Ziva knew not how to offer comfort.

He noticed her eyes on him. Self-conscious, he moved away from the wall and sucked in a deep breath, squared his shoulders and exhaled.

Ziva stepped in to intercept him when he made a purposeful move to exit the store.

"Where do you think you're going?" she queried, already guessing his destination.

"There is a _crime scene_ to secure, Ziva," he ground out.

"No." Ziva blocked his path, sensing an air of hostility about him. "You're not going in there," she said with a quick shake of her head and a restraining hand on his chest. She could feel him trembling.

"And why not, Ziva?" Tony balked, feeling the pressure of her palm against him; his heart thumping wildly.

"It is not how you want to remember her," Ziva said softly; tactfully. "Not like that." She dropped her hand to her side and looked at him, silently begging him to relent, and that for once in his life, he listen to her advice. _I know what I'm talking about, Tony...please...I am trying to spare you unnecessary grief. You have never had the burden of seeing what a terrorist's bomb does to someone you care about. You will never wash that horror from your eyes. Never. _

Tony was about to protest further when Gibbs snapped his phone shut and broke in: "She's right, DiNozzo. I've requested the assistance of another team to handle this one."

The younger man gaped at the older man. "Boss..." He couldn't just _leave_ right now. Not after what happened. _I owe Paula. I _owe_ it to her to handle...this. _

"Take the car back to NCIS headquarters, " Gibbs put a firm hand on Tony's shoulder, fixing him with a steely gaze that left no room for argument. "You need to go home. Ziva and I'll get a ride back with Ducky and Palmer when they're through here. Go. You can worry about reports another day."

Tony's head sank in resignation. He patted his pockets for the keys to the requisitioned car, but they weren't there. "I, uh, I don't have the keys," he said meekly.

Gibbs checked his own pockets and also came up empty. "Ah, hell," he muttered.

"What's wrong?" Ziva asked. "You don't have them?"

Gibbs ran a hand over his mouth and sighed, remembering who'd been driving. "I gave them to Paula."

It took every ounce of control not to turn and look at the wall that separated them from the tragedy on the other side; to not turn and see the last place Paula had been.

"Spare's back at NCIS," Gibbs said in a business-like fashion. "I'll ask McGee to bring 'em." He pulled out his cell phone and dialed.

As Gibbs waited for the other man to answer his call, he shot a sidelong glance at Tony. "DiNozzo," he said in a harsh whisper, just in case Tim answered in-between, "what're you still doing here? Grab a taxi already! Get outta here."

Tony silently complied, and walked out of the gray room without another word.

***

Tim was about to leave the lab and return to his desk with its stack of names waiting for him when his phone buzzed. He saw it was Gibbs.

"Yeah, Boss," he answered. "Did you get them?"

Abby excitedly clasped her hands and grinned, bouncing on her toes in anticipation.

"Yeah, we got 'em..." Gibbs replied vaguely.

Tim smiled, failing to register the heaviness in Gibbs' half-hearted reply. "They got them," he said to Abby, covering the tiny mouthpiece for discretion. Abby's smile intensified, and she pumped her arms in triumph.

"But not clean," Gibbs' voice carried over loud enough for both Tim and Abby to hear.

Abby halted her celebratory dance and frowned in confusion. "What do you mean, Boss?" Tim brought the phone back to his ear.

"It was Malik. He disappeared long enough to strap a bomb to himself. He took Cassidy with him when he blew it."

Too shocked to speak, Tim stood rooted to the spot. All traces of celebration drained away from his face. He'd only really worked with Paula once before, but she was still one of them. He remembered from past conversations that Jim Nelson had had only good things to say about her leadership. Now they were both gone, along with Rick Hall.

Gibbs didn't wait to hear a response from McGee and proceeded with his original intent for the call.

"Mc_Gee_," Abby whined, "what's happening?" She noted his distress and realized that something was very wrong.

The young agent held up a finger, indicating he wanted silence.

"Yeah, Boss...yes, I'll bring 'em with me. I'll head down to Ducky right away."

Tim pocketed his phone. His forehead was creased; eyes downcast, deeply saddened that in spite of their best efforts, they'd been too late to halt a suicide bomber.

Abby put both hands on Tim's shoulders. "Spit it out, McGee," she said. "What did Gibbs say? Why are you going to see Ducky?"

With a small sigh, Tim looked up and met Abby's perplexed gaze. "He said...he said that it was Jamal Malik..."

"How'd they know for sure?" Abby asked. "It could be either one of the two who were painting..."

"Because Malik just blew himself up. And Gibbs says he took Paula with him, too."

Abby's hands flew to her mouth as she bit back a cry. Her eyes started misting over.

"Hey, Abs, hey," Tim said comfortingly. He hadn't been expecting that reaction. He pulled the Goth-scientist into an embrace. "It's okay. Come on. You couldn't have known..."

"But I _should _have known. You don't understand, McGee," Abby sobbed. "This is all my fault. If I'd just thought about isolating those prints from the laptop sooner, we'd have known it was one of them sooner. Gibbs would have pulled them in for questioning. He would have got the truth out of them..."

"Abby, it is _not_ your fault," Tim said forcefully.

"No!" Abby blurted, and pushed away from Tim. "This is the second time it's happened...and it's my fault."

"The second time _what's_ happened?" Tim asked helplessly. "Abby, you're not making any sense. Please, you need to get a grip. I know it's upsetting news, but you can't blame yourself, okay?"

"Last year." Abby folded her arms, her eyes burning with conviction. "Last year with the copy-cat, Adam O'Neill. Whose fault was it we didn't figure it out until he'd grabbed Paula? Whose fault was that?!"

"I, uh, um..." Tim stammered. He remembered how upset Abby had been when she realized she had made some assumptions about the Polaroid photos in the serial killer's scrapbook. But the truth was that none of them had even an inkling that the last victims filed in the album were not victims of the original killer.

"Whose fault?!" Abby repeated more strenuously. "It was mine! And now, look. I screwed up again, only this time Paula's not just _missing _because of it, she's _dead_."

"Abby," Tim tried his best soothing tone. "You know Paula didn't blame you back then, and she wouldn't be blaming you now. You didn't strap a bomb to Jamal Malik, and you didn't detonate it. You just can't control everything, Abs. You'll drive yourself crazy if you try to."

Abby sniffed and turned away from him. He made a move towards her, then decided to let her have her space.

"Look... I gotta go. Gibbs needs me to bring the spare car keys. I'm leaving with Ducky. Are you gonna be okay?"

Her head bobbed up and down furiously, but she made no verbal reply.

"Okay," Tim said, and left the lab, hoping she'd take his words to heart. _Sometimes_, he thought sadly, _Abby is just too sensitive and caring for her own good_.

***

Emergency vehicles and fire crews were just pulling up to the curb outside the bombed-out stores. Metro police were setting up barricades to keep gawkers at bay.

Tony paid them no heed. The streets were being cordoned off. _Damn_. No traffic allowed through except those whose business it was to be there in an official capacity.

Tony had to walk two blocks to flag down a cab.

The driver stared open-mouthed at Tony's rumpled, messy person through the partition for a good five seconds before Tony snapped: "What?!"

Chastened, the cabbie shut his mouth, turned around and put the car in gear. "Where to, pal?" he asked in a placating tone. He obviously didn't want to upset his fare any further past what his unwanted staring had already done.

In a monotone, Tony recited his address. He slumped in the backseat. His head was starting to buzz, and his ears were registering a phantom hum that swam just beneath the purr of the car's engine. It was a discordant arrangement that was beginning to annoy him.

_Home_... _I don't want to go home,_ he thought bitterly. _I've just cheated death and I'm going _home_, like it's just another end of the work day; another run-of-the-mill Friday. _

He could feel his eyes starting to tear up. He couldn't stop seeing her final move; her desperate dive to ensure they all lived to see another day, at the cost of her own life.

_Paula was alive ten minutes ago. I was standing next to her. I was talking with her. Now I'll never talk with her again. We'll never play our silly games. No more jokes and teasing. No more creative put-downs and rebuffs. She's dead. What a horrible way to die: facing a suicide bomber like that. _

Tony almost couldn't imagine a worse way to die. _At least Kate didn't know what was coming...but Paula...she _knew_. _

_Did you have any regrets, Paula? _He thought now of their candid conversation the day they discovered that damned hidden door. _Was there someone you cared about, Paula? Was there someone _you_ wanted to say those three clichéd words to?_

With a sardonic smile, Tony thought of the 'boyfriend' Paula had obviously invented on the spot in order to bait him over a year ago. He knew 'Bob the lawyer' wasn't real; knew the red Ferrari and Redskins box-seats were pure fabrication. But right now, part of him almost wished this person _was_ real. It would have meant that Paula somehow wasn't alone when she died. It was one of his own worst fears: _dying alone_; dying without someone's love. Dying a lonely death, no matter what form that death ultimately took, was not something he ever wanted for himself, or those he cared about.

_I'm not dead, yet, _Tony thought. _I am still alive. Because of Paula, I'm alive..._

Tony suddenly knew what he had to do. He knew how he could honor Paula. He leaned forward to speak to the cab driver.

"Hey, I've changed my mind. I need to get somewhere else."

"Sure thing, buddy," the cabbie replied. "Name the place and you're there."

***

Director Jenny Shepard sat quietly in her office for a long time after Agent Gibbs' call, and after dispatching an available team to the site. She'd requested a hold on all calls for the time being.

She felt stunned by Gibbs' shocking news. She almost couldn't comprehend how it could happen that now _three_ agents had been lost in the line of duty during her tenure as NCIS director.

_This isn't Iraq, or Afghanistan!_ _My people are _not_ supposed to be killed by suicide bombers on American soil..._The sentiment from when agents Hall and Nelson died ran through her mind again.

_My people are not supposed to die like this. _But they had, and Jenny was heartsick over it.

She remembered it had only been days ago that Paula had sat opposite her in this very office. Jenny couldn't miss the look of sheer disappointment and frustration on Paula's face over the imposed two-day 'vacation'. The younger woman had been so broken by the loss of her team, blaming herself; yet so defiant and determined to secure justice for them. She'd been in so much pain, the walking wounded among them, but had covered up her physical and emotional suffering and soldiered on in spite of it. And now, according to Gibbs, she had given her life making sure nobody else was lost.

_You said you weren't going to rest until you'd made sure all the ones responsible for the deaths of Hall and Nelson were in the ground_, Jenny thought sadly._ I hope you're resting now, Paula. I hope you've found your peace._

Jenny pulled herself together and decided it was time to get moving on the duty she'd been avoiding.

"Cynthia," she paged her secretary. Her voice sounded tired to her own ears.

"Yes, Director," came the ever-alert reply from the woman in the anteroom.

"I need you to pull Special Agent Paula Cassidy's personnel file for me immediately."

"Right away, Director," Cynthia replied.

With a sigh, Jenny sat back in her chair, mentally preparing herself to make another call, the kind she had hoped she would never have to make again.

***

Tony climbed the first flight of stairs to the second-floor landing. He slowly approached her familiar door, numbered _202_. He extended his arm and rapped with his knuckles. She was home, he knew. He could hear an _R.E.M._ tune turned up loud, the music wafting through the walls. He recognized the melancholy piece about everybody hurting, sometimes. Clearly, she was in a moody place right now. Well, he was hurting right now, too, and he was hurting plenty. He only hoped that his confession would be accepted now as truth.

The door swung open. She looked a little surprised to see him, shyly regarding him as he stood silently on the threshold. Her eyes then challenged him to say something; to account for his unexpected intrusion into her self-pity party.

_Paula died so I could live. I could have been killed and you never would have known...you never would know that I..._His eyes were brimming again. He finally found his voice:

"I love you, Jeanne," he said, as plainly and as honestly as he could ever hope to say those words.

Her eyes lit up. A smile of joy broke out on her face, and she rushed forward to him, melted into his arms, accepted his eager, hungry kiss. He pulled back and held her face in his hands, and gazed down at her. To him, she was a vision of beauty; a sight for sore eyes. He drew her in for another kiss, then just held her as she wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his shoulder.

A single tear slid down his cheek, for this reconciliation held for him a bitter edge. His relief at Jeanne's forgiveness and acceptance was tempered by the fact that it had all been bought with a very heavy price. He wondered if it were possible that Paula was somehow aware of this reunion; that she could somehow know it had been made possible because of her sage words and her courageous actions... If it were possible, then he prayed she also knew that he would be eternally grateful.


	12. Inconsolate

D.J. Cassidy was at her front door, about to step foot outside when the phone rang. She momentarily considered letting the answering machine take it. Her volunteer shift at the Simi Valley Hospital, just a short walk away, was due to start in a half-hour. Her brother-in-law was lounging beside the backyard pool, and her husband, Reg, was golfing with three of his close friends.

_I suppose I should answer,_ she thought, slightly miffed at the delay. D.J. turned away from the door and walked over to pick up the extension in the kitchen.

"Hello?" she answered cagily. If it was a telemarketer, she wanted to make the call as brief as possible.

"Hello," came a well-bred female voice that, to D.J.'s ears, carried a hint of reticence, "I would like to speak with Donna-Julia Cassidy, please."

"Yes, you've reached her... May I ask who's calling?" D.J. asked cautiously, knowing that only strangers would refer to her by her full name, and she surely didn't recognize this caller.

"I am NCIS Director Jenny Shepard, and-"

"Oh, Director Shepard!" D.J. broke in, rapidly processing the possibilities as to why she'd receive a call from the NCIS _director_,... And almost before the thought materialized in tangible form, she was verbalizing it with detached certainty: "Something has happened to Paula."

It was a statement, not a question.

And it caught Jenny completely off-guard. It broke her concentration and derailed her carefully-crafted message. She had wanted to avoid all the clichéd euphemisms and stock words of condolence. Instead, D.J.'s comment caused her to lose her mental footing, and Jenny stumbled into territory she had vowed she would avoid.

"I – I'm afraid so, Mrs. Cassidy," Jenny stammered out. She wanted to bite her tongue, but there was no way to stop and return to the script now. "I'm afraid that there is no easy way to say this, and I regret that it cannot be done in person. But... There's been another suicide bombing. Paula...did not survive. I'm so sorry, Mrs. Cassidy. She's dead."

Jenny knew that when delivering such news, there could be no room for ambiguity; no doubts or misunderstandings about what had happened to a loved one. She knew she_ had_ to say the word 'dead', as blunt and heartless as it may seem on the surface. That part, at least, she'd been able to salvage from her pre-planned delivery.

D.J. Cassidy felt as if she had just been plunged into the frigid depths of the deepest lake. Sound seemed distorted and muffled like the hollow, diffused sounds in an underwater environment. Her lungs burned like if they were filling with water. _I can't breathe,_ she thought in a panic. In her mind, she was frantically clawing upwards to an invisible surface that she would never break in time.

From the silence on the other end, Jenny was fearful her news had shocked the other woman into fainting. _Oh, Jesus, _she thought, _I should have first made sure she wasn't alone in the house. Please don't tell me she's all alone out there and that she's collapsed with no one to help her..._

Then, finally a sign of life with the whispered words: "How many others?"

"I'm sorry, what?" Jenny asked, relieved that the other woman had responded, but also confused by the question.

"How many others did you lose this time?"

Comprehension dawned on Jenny. "Oh! None. None, Mrs. Cassidy. In fact, this agency owes you a debt that can never be repaid. I was told Paula sacrificed herself by tackling the bomber. Because of her actions today, six lives were saved. So it was not in vain or without purpose. Paula died an honorable death. She is a hero."

_Stop it!_ Jenny warned herself. _Stop trying to make it sound like a good thing! Stop trying to put a positive spin on this tragedy. Her family is not going to see it that way. This was _not_ a good day to die._

D.J. was maintaining her silence, and Jenny was at a loss as to what else to say. Again, the next words from the other woman surprised Jenny.

"Will you please give me some time to get in touch with my family before any of this is made public?"

"Yes, of course," Jenny replied, amazed at the composure demonstrated by Paula's mother. "Whenever you're ready."

"Thank you, Director Shepard."

"Mrs. Cassidy," Jenny said softly, "I want to offer my sincerest condolences to you and your entire family. This hasn't been an easy week for us, and losing Paula will only make things all the more difficult to bear. I know I speak for the entire agency when I say we grieve with you, and we share your pain. I am truly sorry for your loss."

Jenny heard an audible sigh. Then, "Thank you, Director," D.J. said serenely. "I'll be in touch to make arrangements to...to bring Paula home."

The phone call ended with D.J. assuring Jenny she required no assistance at this time. She returned the receiver to the cradle. D.J. stood behind the kitchen counter, staring blankly into the well-appointed living room. Her breathing was under control again, but the shock of the news had not dissipated.

_I have to call Reg. He doesn't like to be interrupted when he's golfing. He's going to be mad when his cell phone rings, but he's going to feel terribly guilty for that when he finds out why I'm calling._

But there was no possible way to avoid that reaction, D.J. knew, as she dialed her husband's cell phone.

Temperatures were soaring out on the Wood Ranch Golf Club course, a private, 18-hole facility complete with a driving range. Reginald Cassidy was about to tee up at the 10th hole when he felt the vibrations of his cell phone. With a grunt of impatience, he uncoiled his fingers from his club, and slipped the phone from his belt clip. He read the call display, and decided he probably ought to answer. D.J. had been acting weird all week since they'd learned about Paula's close call on Sunday. He was a little worried about her, truthfully.

"What is it, D.J.?" he answered, trying to keep his annoyance at bay.

"I need you to come home right away, Reggie," D.J. said, ignoring his lack of greeting. After all, she'd been prepared for negativity.

A warning bell went off in Reginald's brain. His wife sounded odd. He could sense something was wrong. "We've just started the back nine, honey. What's the matter?" he asked, a cold snake of dread coiling itself around his insides. He hoped he was only imagining that the spark was missing from his normally bubbly wife's voice.

"The director of NCIS just called," D.J. continued, almost choking on the words. "Oh, Reg...She told me that Paula's been killed."

"What!" Reg bellowed. He felt his chest muscles constrict, and his knees started to buckle. The golf club slipped from his hand to the grass, unheeded.

Startled by his shout, the rest of Reggie's foursome looked up at him, concerned by his sudden and obvious distress.

"How could this happen?" Reg whispered harshly, his free hand tugging at the neck of his golf shirt which was somehow feeling much too tight. Perspiration was starting to stream down his face.

"Director Shepard said it was another suicide bombing-"

"_Suicide bomb..._ Oh, God...I'm coming home right now, D.J., I'm coming."

Reginald shoved his cell phone back into its clip and blindly scrambled over to the golf cart the foursome had been using, his mind reeling.

"Reg, slow down there, fella," came the voice of close pal, Cliff Bingham, "where d'ya think you're goin'?"

"You're forgetting your clubs!" called out fellow retiree and colleague, Marv Miller.

Reginald seemed not to hear. He stumbled into the driver's seat of the cart and tried to get it to start.

"Hey! Reggie!" Buck Crenshaw, friend and next-door neighbor, strode quickly towards the cart and placed a hand on the steering wheel. "Stop. Look at me."

Feverish eyes met steady, controlled ones.

"What were you thinking, Reg?" Buck asked lightly. "Who was that on the phone? Were you just gonna strand us out here by taking off? What is going on?"

Reginald looked away, struck by his friend's concern. He bit his trembling lip and managed to say: "D.J. called. Paula's been killed. I have to go."

Buck stared at his friend for a beat, unsure if he'd heard right.

"I have to go!" Reg repeated more forcefully, challenging Buck to move away and let him take the wheel. "D.J. needs me. I have to go!"

"Not by yourself, you're not," Buck said calmly and sensibly. "You're too worked up. It's not safe for you to be driving. I'll take you home." He whistled through his teeth to grab the attention of Marv and Cliff, who'd been maintaining their distance in silent confusion. "Grab everything. We're leaving, now! We've got a family emergency, here."

They wordlessly retrieved the clubs Reg had abandoned, as well as their own, and took their seats in the cart. Like a child, Reg obediently slid over to allow Buck into the driver's spot.

"Somebody wanna explain what in the blazes is goin' on?" Cliff groused, clearly put out at having to end their outing so early. "We just got goin' on the back nine-"

"Shut it," Buck interrupted him curtly, as he drove as fast as he dared over the vast expanse of green back towards the clubhouse. Then, in a more collected and quiet manner in deference to his grief-stricken friend: "Reggie just found out that Paula's been killed."

D.J. hung up the phone after speaking with her husband. Until this point, she thought she'd been holding it together. She'd had to, for the sake of the call to Reg. But now, she craved release. She desperately wanted to scream her unbearable anguish, but no sound came forth from her closed throat. Her vocal cords refused to obey when she tried to open her mouth. She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting; pleading for the torrent to start. Slowly, the tears began to trickle, and D.J. slid down the side of the counter, wrapping her arms around herself. Already her jaw was aching from clenching so tightly.

_My child. Cara mia..._

_Paula, Paula, Paula..._

Her lips moved silently, tracing the consonants and vowels of her eldest daughter's name. Only a wispy, feather-light murmur escaped. D.J. was beginning to shake now; quiet sobs and dry heaves sapping her strength. She managed to suck in one deep breath, and felt the surge of grief finally readying its escape. _Oh, Paula..._

"_Paula!_" she cried out, and the dam burst.

She didn't hear the sliding door being shoved open, or the uneven lope of her brother-in-law, Hy, as he rushed inside, hobbling with his cane to see what was wrong.

"D.J.!" he called out. "Where are you?" He heard the whimpering from behind the counter. As quickly as his impediment allowed, Hy hurried around the kitchen and was shocked to find his sister-in-law huddled on the floor, weeping openly.

"D.J.! What's happened? Are you hurt? What's the matter?" He managed to lower himself to the floor. He set his cane aside and gently pulled D.J. to a sitting position.

"It's Paula," D.J. managed to say through her blubbering. "We've lost Paula."

Hy visibly blanched. He gripped D.J.'s shoulder with his functioning hand and stared her in the face. "No!"

D.J. nodded miserably through her tears.

"When? How?" Hy demanded answers, barely keeping a lid on his own emotions.

"The NCIS director told me there was another suicide bomber. She told me Paula didn't survive."

"'Another suicide bomber'," Hy repeated, feeling a hot, fiery rage coursing through his being. "God, a suicide bomber on _American soil_... how could they let something like this happen?!"

"I _told _her!" D.J. cried pitifully, "I _told_ her to be careful!"

"Does Reg know?" Hy asked, not daring to address D.J.'s pain over the evidently prescient warning she'd issued to Paula; a warning Paula had seemingly disregarded.

D.J. nodded in reply to Hy's inquiry, wiping vainly at tears that continued to fall. "He's on his way. But I - I have to call the children. They have to be told."

Wobbly legs eventually brought them to a standing position as they supported each other. D.J. reached for the telephone, and tried to compose herself. She had to think and consider clearly what she was going to do and say.

_Call Stevie first. She has the longest way to drive. Then Jennifer... Then Brian... _

_I am calling my daughter, the banker; my daughter, the teacher; my son, the engineer - to tell them their sister, the federal agent, is dead. This isn't right. This sort of thing isn't supposed to happen to people like us; to a family like ours. Not to someone like Paula. Oh, God, blown up by a suicide bomber! _

D.J. fought to banish thoughts of what it must have been like in Paula's last moments, but they persisted, encroaching dangerously into her conscious mind. She wasn't naïve; she knew the kind of destruction that could be wrought by a bomb worn by a terrorist. She'd seen the eventual on-scene footage on ZNN from Sunday's tragedy, even though Reg had tried to dissuade her from looking at it. The way that store had been scarred by the blast... There was no way to escape the knowledge that Paula's death today was a horrible one. _Please, at least tell me you didn't suffer, Paula. Please let it have been quick._

D.J. shuddered under the weight of her dark pondering and terrifying mental imagery. An almost physical pain laced through her, and she silently begged for some reprieve from the relentless agony.

"Would you like me to call them for you, instead?" Hy asked, eyes rimmed with tears. He was looking pointedly at the telephone receiver, which had started to make the irritating 'busy signal' noise from being off the hook for too long.

"No," D.J. sniffled. "I'm going to do it now."

She started dialing, knowing that in a few short minutes, her words would be creating a domino effect of grief as she transmitted the news that the family was now without one beloved member .


	13. Commiseration

**A/N: **The original air date of _'Grace Period'_ was Tuesday, April 3rd, 2007. Good Friday did indeed fall on April 6th that year, and would logically be the 'Friday' alluded to for the peace conference.

"_Hi! You've reached the personal and confidential voice mail of Stephanie Cassidy, financial advisor at Bank of America. Today is Thursday, April 5__th__, and I'm in the office until 7 p.m. Please note that tomorrow, April 6__th__, is Good Friday, and the bank will be closed until-_"

With a sob, D.J. Cassidy hung up the phone, cutting off Stevie's cheerfully recorded work message. _It's Good Friday! _She'd completely forgotten that it was a holiday. Stephanie, and indeed the rest of her children, would not be found at work

_There's nothing 'good' about this Friday, and there never will be again,_ D.J. contemplated bitterly, as she began dialing Stevie's home line.

She started with the same message when she had reached all three of her remaining children:

"_Your father and I need you to come home. Something terrible has happened. Your sister, Paula, was killed this morning. Please come as soon as possible._"

The burden of the bad news did not get any easier to bear with each successive re-telling of the details she'd learned from Director Shepard.

Hy just sat in the living room in stunned silence while D.J. continued making phone calls to other various relations and close friends. He did not envy her that responsibility.

Buck Crenshaw made the normally thirty-minute trip from the golf course to the Cassidy residence in just under twenty. His concern for his friend was growing with each passing second, and he was thankful they'd carpooled this day. Reggie hadn't uttered a word the entire ride, and his face had taken on an alarmingly gray pallor.

_He looks sick, _Buck thought, stealing a glance at Reg. He didn't want to even imagine the hell his friend must be going through.

Reg mechanically exited his car upon arrival and went into the house, shrugging off assistance from Buck and the rest of his golfing partners. Inside, Reg could see many of their close friends from the neighborhood had already gathered, offering condolences to D.J. and Hy.

D.J. saw him cross the threshold, and immediately broke away from the sympathetic ministrations of Buck's wife, Karen Crenshaw. A new wave of sorrow washed over her, and she rushed towards Reg and threw her arms around him, encircling his broad shoulders, vise-like. Reg returned with his own crushing embrace.

"Our girl," D.J. breathed into Reggie's shirt, already wet with her tears. "We've lost our big girl."

"I know," Reg replied mournfully, his face buried in her hair. The pair simply clung to each other for minutes on end, needing each other in the face of their shared loss.

***

Brian was the first of the Cassidy offspring to arrive, followed shortly by his now next-eldest sister, Jennifer.

"Mom! Dad!" he called out upon entering the house, ignoring the rest of the assembled mourners. D.J. acknowledged his presence from where she sat at the kitchen table with her friends, face flushed and eyes swollen. Jennifer went to join her as Brian approached his father and uncle in the living room.

"Dad, are you feeling alright?" Brian took in Reggie's uncharacteristically ashen complexion, the beads of perspiration on his brow and his shallow breathing. He looked nothing like the normally robust man Brian had known all his life.

"I'll be okay, son," Reg croaked out. "I'm just getting over the shock, is all. I just need to rest here for a while."

"No offense, but you look like hell, Dad," Brian said, unwilling to let his father off the hook so easily. Under the circumstances, he had to admit the senior Cassidy had every right to look like hell, but there was something dangerously fragile about his appearance that worried Brian.

"I think Stevie's finally here," D.J. said, rising to peer through the large bay windows from her spot in the kitchen.

Stephanie had had the longest to drive, and therefore had the longest time alone with her thoughts. At once she'd been filled with deep sadness and an overwhelming sense of loss when her mother had broken the news. She'd experienced the deaths of all four of her grandparents, but never a sibling, and it was soul-shattering. But during her drive, a rebellious notion bubbled up inside her, one that refused to accept the news.

_Wait, _she told herself as the miles flew by_. This can't be right. There must be some mistake. I'm going to get to Mom and Dad's and it's going to all be one big misunderstanding. Mistaken identity, something... Paula can't be dead. It's all one big mistake, and we're all going to be so relieved._

She carried this brightly-burning flame of hope with her, placing around it a buffer of reasons and scenarios of how Paula could still be alive. For the entire hour-long drive, Stevie vowed nothing was going to extinguish that flame.

Now, standing in the middle of her parents' living room, even amidst the obvious pall hanging over her family members and friends, Stevie's ill-founded conviction barely wavered:

"It's all a mistake. It has to be. Tell me it's a mistake!"

"No, Stevie," D.J. replied with pity. _I should have been prepared for this, _she thought._ Stevie was always the most sensitive of all of them, and idolized Paula as a child. Her denial of the truth is going to make it difficult on everyone. _

"Well, somebody has to have screwed up! It was a bomb, right? Did they make a positive identification? DNA? How can they be sure?"

"There were several witnesses who saw what happened, Stevie," D.J. said, trying not to sound patronizing. She knew she had to make a strong statement now, even though she, too, was struggling with the tragedy. "There's no mistake. We have to accept the truth: Paula is gone."

Stevie's face crumbled in misery and despair. Hot tears of shame flowed unchecked as her final shred of hope disintegrated. D.J. came to her and placed soothing arms around her, making soft, calming _shushing _sounds in a valiant attempt to relieve some of the emotional strain the unvarnished truth brought. But Stevie could not be comforted and remained stiff and unresponsive to her mother's caresses. She mentally berated herself for holding onto the notion that Paula was really okay. _How could I have been so stupid? Now everyone's looking at me like I'm the biggest idiot..._

"What was Paula _thinking?!_" Jennifer Cassidy burst out angrily. Up to this point, she had barely spoken three words since she'd arrived. "How could she do this?"

"She was _thinking_ about saving lives," Brian retorted, shifting his attention away from his father.

"This is why Mom and Dad didn't want her joining NCIS in the first place. This is _exactly_ why!"

"This isn't the time, Jennifer," Brian hissed. "Show a little respect, huh?"

"An armed federal agency? How could she take those stupid risks? And now she's gone and gotten herself killed!"

Reggie started to wheeze. He clutched at his chest and doubled over, gasping for breath.

"See? Look what you've done! You're upsetting Dad," Brian said accusingly. "You just don't know when to quit, do you?"

Jennifer sent him a dark look, but held her tongue, wisely realizing that further antagonistic words would not be the best way to vent her feelings.

Hy gave his brother a few strong slaps on his back. "Take it easy, there, Reg...breathe, buddy..."

Everyone in the house, alerted by the sounds of distress, now focused on Reggie, who was still struggling to overcome his sudden apparent anxiety attack.

"Dad..." Brian crouched next to his father. "I really don't like the way you're looking. You've had a terrible shock. You could be on the verge of having a heart attack."

"Don't...be ridiculous," Reg gasped. "I just...need...to calm...down."

Brian shook his head vehemently. "I've lost one family member today, Dad. I'm not losing two. I'm taking you to Emergency. Mr. Crenshaw, will you be kind enough to lend me a hand?"

Buck sprang into action and immediately went to Reggie's side to help Brian support him.

"You're all being...ridiculous," Reg huffed. "Just let me...be..."

"Reggie, for God's sake, go with them," D.J. pleaded, knowing her husband would resist seeing a doctor.

Reg saw her concern and her fright at his condition. He realized that Buck and Brian were not going to back down, so he relented, knowing he didn't have the strength at present to fight them.

After seeing the three men out to the car, D.J. tightly hugged her husband again. "You be good," she admonished. "Don't give those doctors and nurses any trouble. I love you."

Reggie grunted as he climbed into the backseat of his car while Buck once again took the driver's position. "I love you, too, D.J.," he replied.

"Mom, would you please call Paige and tell her and the kids that we're taking Dad to Simi Valley Hospital as a precaution?" Brian asked D.J. before he got into the side passenger seat. "I don't know how long we're going to be there, and I don't want them to worry."

"Of course," D.J. replied. "Call us as soon as you know anything."

"I will," Brian promised.

Without ceremony, Buck pulled out of the driveway and sped off to the nearby hospital Emergency room.

***

There was no space available on flights due to the Easter long weekend. D.J. and Stevie were finally able to fly out early on Easter Monday from LAX to Dulles.

While Reg had wanted to be the one to travel with D.J., his doctors had advised against it, and insisted on keeping him in the hospital for observation. Brian opted to stay behind in order to deal with the multitude of calls, tributes and attention from the media that had started to inundate them as soon as news of Paula's demise had officially broken. Jennifer had no interest in going, so Stevie reluctantly chose to accompany her mother.

The preliminary report of the investigation conducted by the replacement team sent in by Director Shepard brought to light some much-needed information about the suicide bombings. A search of the residence of deceased suicide bomber, Jamal Malik, turned up traces of bomb-making materials. Abby was in the process of trying to match those traces to those found at the site of the bombing. Even though it was still too early to be perfectly certain, she was optimistic the outcome would be a positive one.

Upon further questioning, Abdul Wahid recalled that on the day of the fateful blast that took the lives of Yahzeed Fahad and Special Agents Hall and Nelson, Jamal Malik had brought a laptop to the Grace Street Diner. Wahid said he assumed Malik was simply cyber-surfing as they ate lunch due to the availability of wireless internet service in the vicinity. With that knowledge, it finally became obvious that Salman Umar had been the decoy in the carefully-orchestrated ruse, and that Malik had been the one using the V.S. Twelve software to set up the deadly rendezvous.

Also at Malik's residence, NCIS agents found tiny scraps of latex in the basement. They hypothesized that Yahzeed Fahad had been killed there, based on the knowledge that he'd been suffocated when hot latex had been poured down his throat.

Out in the bullpen, Jenny advised Gibbs, Tony, Tim and Ziva of these findings, as they obviously still had a vested interest in the case. She also advised them that D.J. and Stevie would be arriving later in the day, and if they so desired, they could meet them.

"I have Paula's personal effects ready," Ducky said to Jenny, when he learned of the impending visit. "However, I do not think it would be appropriate in this instance to give the family her badge. It is far too damaged." He thought with distaste of the melted and misshapen pock-marked blob that had been recovered.

"Noted," Jenny said with understanding.

It was early afternoon when the slightly weary-looking Cassidys were escorted into the building, wearing their visitor's badges. Jenny received them warmly, and showed them to one of the conference rooms where Gibbs and Tony were already waiting.

The two agents stood as the three women entered. _They're definitely related to Paula,_ Tony thought, as he looked at them. While D.J.'s hair was more salt than pepper unlike Paula's blonde, the petite frame and some facial structures were almost identical. You really couldn't miss the familial resemblance, Tony decided, when he saw the blue-gray eyes, fair hair and slightly dimpled chin on the younger woman he knew had to be Paula's sister.

After a few moments of awkward silence, Jenny moved to speak, but Gibbs jumped in first.

"Mrs. Cassidy, I presume..." he said, approaching D.J., "my deepest sympathies. I'm Special Agent-"

"Jethro Gibbs," D.J. finished, as she shook his hand. She saw his quickly-veiled expression of surprise. She looked at him knowingly. "Paula...used to write letters to us quite frequently. It was her way of keeping us all informed of what was happening in her life and her job. She's written about you several times. I must say, you're exactly as she described you."

"Is that so?" Gibbs asked.

D.J. nodded, and then introduced Stevie, who limply shook Gibbs' hand and said a shy 'hello', but made no further effort to engage him in conversation.

"And _you_ must be Anthony DiNozzo," D.J. said to Tony.

"Yes, ma'am," Tony answered, offering his hand to shake.

He shook Stevie's hand next, and she blushed slightly and kept the contact as brief as possible.

" '_DiNozzo'_..." D.J. repeated, dropping into a genuine Italian accent, "that's a fine Italian name."

"_Grazie,_" Tony said, "Paula never mentioned you were-"

"Half," D.J. admitted. "The other's Irish. My father was from the Emerald Isle. He was studying in Rome when he met my mother. They got married there, and there they stayed, until deciding to come here to the 'States when I was eleven. All my children tend to take after my husband Reggie's Scottish side, though."

Tony gave a lop-sided grin. "What was your father doing studying in Rome?"

"What else would a bright, young Irish lad be doing in Rome? He was studying to become a priest in the seminary there. Caused quite a scandal when he married my mother, instead. The family practically disowned him."

"Heh!" Tony chortled. "Yeah...I can identify...The family disowning thing, not the priesthood thing," he added hurriedly.

"I think Paula liked you a lot, Agent DiNozzo," D.J. said, studying the younger man intently. "She never really said it outright in the letters she wrote to us, but I could read between the lines."

"I am... deeply sorry about what happened to Paula," Tony said, growing serious. "She was... a very special person. And I owe her much more than I can ever say."

"Thank you, Agent DiNozzo," D.J. said with sincerity. "I know if your roles were reversed, you would have done the same thing for her. I know all of you would have."

Tony nodded. "She knew what she was doing. I only wish it didn't end the way it did." He clasped her hands once more, and took his leave.

Jenny also took that moment to excuse herself. "I'm going to see if our M.E., Dr. Mallard, is ready to speak with you," she said. "I'll be back shortly."

D.J. quickly turned her attention back to Gibbs. "Paula never did tell you, did she?"

"Tell me what, Mrs. Cassidy?" Gibbs asked.

"That you were one of the main reasons she decided to seek employment with NCIS."

Gibbs shook his head.

"You see, she was a student at Georgetown when that serial killer, Kyle Boone, was on his rampage. Paula didn't scare easily, but that monster... he had her rattled. She started taking self-defense classes and everything. Then when Boone was finally arrested, she wrote and told us how fascinated she was that this small, unknown _Naval_ federal agency had been able to do what none of the other agencies could. Not local detectives, not the FBI... NCIS nailed him, and Paula never forgot the name of the man who got it done: Leroy Jethro Gibbs.

"After that, she was pretty determined that she would end up working for NCIS. She wanted to be able to make the same kind of difference you made. So, she applied as soon as she finished her Psychology studies; made it through FLETC; got on board with NCIS, just like she said she would. She used to tell us she loved the challenges of her diverse assignments, even though we were initially reluctant to support her decision to be a criminal profiler. We were actually quite disappointed she would choose law enforcement over something like a safe, private psychology practice.

"She'd argue: 'Could you see me sitting all day in an office listening to a bunch of neurotic whiners? Day after day, month after month, year after year?'. She had a real independent streak. She said she wanted the chance to see the world, and she knew that was possible with NCIS. You know, when she first met you at GITMO, she wrote to say she was quite sure she had met _the_ Jethro Gibbs. She said you weren't exactly how she imagined you'd be, though."

"I had no idea," Gibbs said kindly. "Paula never said a word about it to me."

"Oh, I suspect she didn't want you to think she was an over-eager, hero-worshipping, brown-nosing sycophant. She said you were a very demanding sort of leader who didn't tolerate mistakes... I think she feared you would think less of her if you somehow knew her initial reasons for becoming an NCIS agent. I think she was afraid she'd never measure up to your standards."

Gibbs nodded soberly. "I never knew. But thank you for telling me. I owe Paula my life and the life of one of my agents. Her sacrifice will not be forgotten."

"I suppose I can take comfort in one thing," D.J. said.

"What's that?" Gibbs asked.

"That the bastard responsible for taking my daughter's life is dead, too. I keep thinking; wondering: what was I doing the moment she died? What was I thinking about? Was I daydreaming? Was I talking with someone? Was I laughing?.. And then I keep thinking that I don't believe I'll ever be able to laugh or smile again after this..."

"You will," Gibbs assured her. "You will. The pain - that never goes away, but one day, you will laugh again; smile again."

D.J. let his words sink in. With a small, sad shrug, she said, "Maybe you're right. But that day seems very far off right now."

Gibbs admitted he understood what she meant, and then bade both Cassidy women good-bye as he excused himself to return to his duties.

"That is a man who has known profound loss," D.J. said quietly to Stevie, watching his retreat.

"How do you know?"

"I could see it in his eyes. I could hear it in his voice. He wasn't offering me empty words of pity or consolation. Something truly dreadful must have happened to him..."

"What do you think happened?"

"Oh, I don't know. He lost someone very precious to him, perhaps. I just wonder how long it took him to laugh again..."

She let that last comment hang in the air as Jenny and Ducky entered the conference room.

"This is Dr. Donald Mallard," the director said by way of introduction.

"I'm sorry we're meeting under such tragic circumstances," the M.E. spoke with practiced delicacy. How many times had he had to say those words in his career, he wondered.

"You're 'Ducky'?" D.J. asked as he took her hand in his.

"Ah, so you know my moniker," he replied with amusement.

"Paula was quite prolific when it came to corresponding. She talked about you once when you patched her up after she'd been attacked with a knife by that lunatic lawyer."

"Yes, I remember," Ducky said dryly. "As I recall, she also managed to kill that lunatic lawyer."

D.J. nodded, and noting Stevie's discomfort with the topic, refrained from saying more.

"This is my daughter, Stephanie," D.J. said to Ducky.

"My condolences," he said earnestly.

"Thank you," Stevie replied, swallowing the lump in her throat.

"Well, as you are aware, arrangements are all in place," Ducky addressed D.J. "The funeral home that will be handling the cremation here in D.C. is a reputable one. There are, of course, some personal effects you can claim now, some rings and other jewelry-"

"Dr. Mallard," D.J. interrupted, "I know you performed the autopsy. I have to know: in your medical opinion, did she at all suffer?" She felt Stevie grab her arm.

Ducky pursed his lips, considering the best way to proceed with an answer. "Paula was quite literally on top of that bomb," he replied slowly, gesturing with his hands. "It would have all been over quite instantly. She would have barely felt anything at all."

D.J. nodded, feeling some measure of relief. Visions of an agonizing death were slowly being put to rest. "So, in your expert opinion, what was the official cause of death?"

"In technical terms," Ducky started, deciding not to mince words, "explosive amputation resulting in the separation of the lower extremities from the upper torso. All brain and cardiopulmonary function would have ceased at that moment."

"Oh..." D.J. closed her eyes for a moment, considering this blunt description. "Would it – would it be possible to see her?"

"Mother!" Stevie gasped, horrified; her grip on her mother's arm tightening.

"Mrs. Cassidy," Ducky said uneasily, "while I can assure you that death was quite instantaneous, the trauma-"

"I just have to be _sure_," D.J. said firmly.

"Yes...Of course," Ducky responded gently. "Come with me."

"Stevie?" D.J. looked at her youngest daughter questioningly.

Stevie stared back at her mother with wide eyes, thoroughly disturbed by the notion of going down to the autopsy bay. She turned and fled out of the conference room in the direction she knew the washrooms to be.

Ducky and Jenny stared after her, but D.J. said: "It's all right. Let her go. She needs to be alone. I should have realized she wouldn't be able to handle it if she came."

The reflective, stainless steel doors _shussed_ open, and D.J. followed Ducky into the brightly-lit, sterile room. Without hesitation, he walked over to the autopsy locker he knew held the remains of Paula Cassidy.

Uncertainty darted across D.J.'s face. Now that she was here, she experienced a brief moment of anxiety over what was about to be revealed. She paused, sucked in a breath, then steeled herself and went to Ducky's side.

Ducky opened the locker door and pulled out the retractable table, thankful he had had the foresight to cover the body with a sheet, just in the event D.J. requested this viewing.

Gently, carefully, he drew back the sheet and held it in place just below Paula's chin.

D.J. hadn't been sure what to expect. She'd had a thousand nightmarish images of nothing but unidentifiable charred flesh and bone. Here, though, Paula's lovely features were surprisingly unmarred. Paula's body had obviously been washed after the autopsy, and her hair hung from her head in dull clumps on the table. Her eyebrows and eyelashes were badly singed. But there was the straight nose, so much like Reggie's; the gentle curve of the mouth and lips...There were small scrapes and cuts visible on the pale cheeks, and one above the right brow, but the skin hadn't been burned black as D.J. had fearfully imagined. She could also see jagged wounds along the jaw and chin, trailing out of sight beneath the sheet... Her mind settled a little more. This was Paula - not some unrecognizable pile of ashes. D.J. let out a sigh, and a tear trickled down her cheek.

"_Cara mia,_" she whispered, and reached out a trembling hand to touch the side of her daughter's face. The flesh was cold, but D.J. didn't break contact for several moments in spite of the discomfort.

_This is the last time I'll ever touch you; see you, at least in this life... Oh, Paula... It's so hard to accept that you're really gone. My heart is broken and my soul grieves so much. You were my first-born girl; my beautiful girl. Ducky says you didn't suffer. I don't know if he's just saying that to make the pain of losing you easier. It helps, somewhat, knowing you didn't suffer, but it will never be enough. My darling, I love you so much, and I will miss you, always. _

She bent down and lightly kissed Paula's forehead. When she straightened up, she looked over at Ducky, and nodded her assent that it was okay now to draw the sheet back and close the drawer. He obliged, respectfully bringing the cover over Paula's face and shutting the door with a soft _click_.

He then retrieved a small brown paper bag and handed it to D.J. "These are Paula's," he said. "It's what we were able to recover from after the blast."

She took the bag from him but couldn't yet bring herself to look at the contents. "Thank you, Dr. Mallard."

Ducky gave a small nod, and accompanied her up to the bullpen after once again expressing his sympathies.

In the ladies' washroom, Stephanie Cassidy struggled to rein in her out-of-control emotions. She did not notice the arrival of one who had witnessed her hasty retreat.

"You are Paula's sister, yes?"

Stevie swung around in surprise, seeing a young, dark-haired woman. She nodded, and wiped her face with her hand to hide the fact she'd been crying.

"I can see a family resemblance. I'm Ziva David. I was there on Friday. I am sorry for your loss."

"Thanks," Stevie said, voice still strained from her failed attempt to stem the tide of tears.

"Here," Ziva said, pulling some tissues from an available box.

Stevie accepted them, slightly embarrassed that she had not reached out to the box herself, and that a stranger had had the presence of mind to grab the tissues for her, instead.

"Sorry," Stevie said contritely, after blowing her nose and drying her eyes.

"You are in a state of mourning," Ziva pointed out. "There is no need to apologize."

"It's just that – I just can't seem to _stop_ crying. It's babyish. I mean, Paula's dead, and I can't _change_ what's happened. My crying won't bring her back. The guy responsible is dead too, so there's no one left to _blame. _Mom and Dad are simply heartbroken. Brian – my brother – is always practical about everything, so he's acting sensibly, but I know he's upset... and my other sister, Jennifer, well, she's very angry at what's happened. And me... I'm just _sad_. It just hurts so much...It's so _unfair _what happened. Paula was my big sister, and now she's gone..and I don't even know why I'm going on like this. You probably think I'm a fool and I don't even know you..."

"No, I don't think you're a fool."

Stevie shot Ziva a look of sarcasm that indicated she didn't quite believe the statement.

"I, too, lost a sister."

Stevie stared at the Mossad agent in shock. "You did?"

Ziva gave a curt nod.

"How?" Stevie ventured to ask.

"She died much the same way as Paula: a terrorist bombing. Her name was Tali," Ziva continued, feeling a familiar stab of pain that always accompanied any recollection of her sister. "She was only sixteen. It is a bias, perhaps, to choose one sibling over another, but Tali was different; special. I will always believe she was the best of us. She was beautiful. She was compassionate. And I still miss her. I will always miss her. You are correct that your tears will not bring Paula back, but as long as you remember her, she is with you."

Stevie impulsively hugged Ziva, who, after a moment of surprise, hugged the other woman back.

"I'm sorry, too, about your sister," Stevie said, stepping back, "I guess you really understand."

"Yes," Ziva affirmed.

Stevie gave her head a shake. "How did you ever learn to stop crying?"

"I didn't," Ziva answered. "I just learned not to let the tears show."

"Stevie?" D.J. poked her head into the washroom. "There you are. Is everything okay?"

Stephanie tossed the used tissues in the trash. "I'm okay. Mom, this is Ziva. She says she was there with Paula on Friday when it...happened. Ziva, this is my mother, D.J. Cassidy."

"How do you do?" D.J. asked.

"I am fine, thank you," Ziva replied politely, as the two shook hands. "I know that mere words cannot bring any real comfort, Mrs. Cassidy, but please accept my condolences."

"Accepted," D.J. said. "Paula's never mentioned you, Agent...?"

"_Officer _David," Ziva corrected. "I am liaison to NCIS. I am Mossad. I only met Paula for the first time last week."

"I see. That would explain it, then," D.J. said.

"In the brief time I got to know your daughter, I could see that she was very upset and angry after the loss of her team. But I also saw that she was dedicated to her job," Ziva said, as the three exited the washroom together. "I am sorry I did not get the opportunity to know her better."

Ziva decided it was better that she not reveal that she had been more at odds with Paula for most of the week than on good terms.

"Thank you, Officer David," D.J. said. "I'm sure Paula would have enjoyed making new friends, too, because really, there still aren't that many women in NCIS."

_And now one less,_ Ziva thought ruefully, as they entered the bullpen. Director Shepard was there, sharing a word with Gibbs.

"Oh, I see you've met Ziva," Jenny said to D.J. and Stevie upon spotting them. "I was worried we'd lost you somewhere in the building."

"Oh, no, everyone's taken very good care of us, Director," D.J. said, clutching the paper bag Ducky had given her.

"Good," Jenny said. "Are you ready to leave the building? I can have someone escort you..."

"Yes, thank you. We can't tarry. We're only in DC for two more days, and we've got to get Paula's apartment packed up, among other things..."

"Agent DiNozzo," Jenny called out to the younger agent.

"Yes, Director?" Tony stood at his desk.

"Escort our guests to their car, would you, and see that-"

"Oh, we took a taxi," D.J. interrupted, slightly embarrassed.

"Tony," Jenny said, "would you then be kind enough to take them to Paula's apartment? I understand they could also use some help with some packing..."

"Oh, no, that's not necessary," D.J. said, politely trying to decline the offer, "I mean, Paula's landlord has already said he'd-"

"I insist," Jenny cut in, making it clear she was not going to take 'no' for an answer. "Tony?"

"I'd be happy to help," Tony said gallantly. "Ladies, would you follow me?"

"Thank you, Director Shepard," D.J. said gratefully.

"I'll see you both tomorrow at the memorial service," Jenny said, as they departed. "Take care."

***

Back down in Autopsy, Ducky felt compelled to return to the locker he'd just shown to D.J. He stood in front of it in silence for a few moments, then finally pulled it open, slid out the table, and lifted the sheet.

"I hope you'll forgive my omission, my dear," he said sorrowfully, "but I am of the opinion that your mother and sister truly did not need to know the full extent of the trauma you sustained in that awful explosion."

_They didn't need to know that, like Yahzeed Fahad, your head did not remain attached to your body._

Ducky returned the sheet to its position and shut the drawer again, satisfied he had made the right decision. Sometimes, telling a little white lie was better than telling the full truth.

Out in the parking garage, Tony led Paula's family to the car he'd requisitioned. D.J. increased her pace and caught up to him. She wanted to make sure that Stevie was out of earshot when she made her request, lest she protest if she heard what was being asked. When Tony heard what she wanted, he nodded in silent agreement, and invited them into the vehicle.

He started the engine and left the Navy Yard, heading in the direction of a place he unfortunately knew only too well. When they reached their destination, Tony parked the car and told D.J. they had arrived.

"Why are we stopping here?" Stevie asked, following her mother and Tony out of the car.

"Because I asked Agent DiNozzo to stop here," D.J. answered.

"Where are we? It can't be Paula's apartment..." she said, looking with uncertainty at the burnt-out building sandwiched between two other businesses. Bits of crime scene tape still hung in places, fluttering slightly in the soft breeze.

"No, it's not," D.J. replied quietly, walking towards a nearby street vendor selling flowers. She paid for a bunch, and walked towards the gutted storefront.

"Then what is?" Stevie asked, not daring to guess, though deep inside, she was starting to experience a sense of unease.

"Paula's _Golgotha,_" D.J. said, almost to herself. She placed the flowers down on the pavement in front of the destroyed store, and remained crouched there for a few moments.

Stevie whirled around to face Tony. "_This_ is where Paula died?!" she screeched.

Tony nodded gravely. "That one, on the left," he said, pointing. "That's where it happened."

"I can't believe my mother asked to be brought here," Stevie muttered under her breath. She could feel that she was dangerously close to another watershed moment.

"Your father would probably think I'm mad for wanting to come here, but I had to see it for myself," D.J. said softly. "I'll never fully understand why it had to be _you_, Paula, to make the sacrifice. It doesn't really help, either, to know that others are alive because of your actions, because I want _you_ to be the one that's alive. But...I know this cannot be.

"You know, your sister Jennifer is so angry over what you did. She keeps asking what possessed you to do it, because we're the ones that have to live with it now. We're the ones who have to deal with the consequences of your actions. I can't help but think about all the 'what ifs'. Like 'what if' you'd stayed in California for your studies; 'what if' you'd just gone and had a private psychology practice, dealing with neurotic whiners instead of terrorists...but I know you were really happy with your job. You were fulfilled as an NCIS agent, and as much as it pains me to say it, I know you died doing the job you loved. And I know it's not like it was a dream of yours, but not every parent can say that their child grew up to be a hero."

With that, D.J. pulled herself up. Dry-eyed, she turned towards Tony and Stevie. "I'm ready to go now," she said. Tony nodded, and the three of them returned to the car and drove off from the site in mutual silence.


	14. Memoriam

Gibbs entered the lab, clutching a _Caf-Pow!_ in his hand. He saw Tim and Abby sitting next to each other, heads bent forward in concentration, in front of a computer. His ears informed him she wasn't blaring any of her music, which to him signified that there was a potential problem.

"Oh, hi, Gibbs," Abby said absently, acknowledging the senior agent's arrival. "Are they gone?"

"Who?" he asked, setting the large cup down on the lab bench.

"You know...Agent Cassidy's family,"Abby answered.

"Yeah, they've left. Tony took 'em to Paula's apartment. Why, did you want to see them?"

"Me? Oh, no...not really...I just -"

Tim sighed. "_Abby_," he started.

"Stop right there, McGee," Abby interrupted, shooting him a warning glance.

"I'm not gonna let you feel guilty about this, Abs," Tim said sternly. "It's not like you ignored something crucial. You did everything you could with the evidence you had and with the time you had."

"And it still wasn't enough," Abby said sullenly.

"And _still_ not your fault," Tim shot back.

"Will one of you please explain what the hell it is you're arguing about?" Gibbs snapped, clearly out of patience.

"Abby didn't want to face Paula's family because she thinks she didn't do enough to stop Jamal Malik," Tim said, the cadence of his words making it clear he found the entire notion absurd. "So, she's been kinda hiding down here all afternoon...and made me keep her company."

"Last time I checked, you weren't even _there _when it happened, Abby," Gibbs said. "What makes you think you could in any way have prevented Jamal Malik from doing what he did on Friday?"

Abby pressed her lips together and refused to meet Gibbs' stare.

"I could've checked the fingerprint evidence from the laptop earlier," came her despondent answer. "I could've made a positive match telling us it was one of them earlier..."

"Yeah, and _I_ could've accepted the Hotline duty last week. I also could've been standing closer to the hidden door when Malik showed up. You start picking apart everything, and questioning what you did and didn't do, you'll lose your effectiveness as a forensic specialist. _You_ didn't detonate that bomb; Malik did. And Paula made the choice to jump. This one's not on you, Abs. It's on them. _They _are responsible for their own actions."

Tim put a reassuring hand on Abby's shoulder. "The Boss is right. Let it go, Abs," he said quietly.

Abby took a deep breath. She seemed at first to be stubbornly resisting their advice. She sat in silence with her eyes shut for several beats, and finally gave a decisive nod. She opened her eyes, grabbed the _Caf-Pow!_ and was about to put the straw to her lips when Gibbs shot out a hand and stopped her.

"_Tell_ me what you got on the explosion residue evidence first," he instructed.

"Oh, it's a complete match, Gibbs," Abby replied, displaying a complete shift back to her usual perky self. "There's no question that Jamal Malik totally assembled both bombs in his home."

"That's good work, Abs," Gibbs commented with an indulgent smile. "Drink up. You've earned it."

He left the lab to the sounds of her contented slurpings, satisfied they could close the book on this case.

***

Tony guided the car through the underground parking structure of Paula's apartment building to the Visitor's Parking area. He noted the building manager's red Ford Focus parked in the designated spot.

"Manager's here," he said to D.J. and Stevie. "Should be no trouble getting him to open up Paula's apartment."

"Yes, a Mr. Hatfield," D.J. said. "I called ahead from our hotel when we first arrived. He's expecting us."

The trio entered the lobby, and saw a lanky man wearing a beat-up Washington Redskins cap. He was having a conversation with a stout security guard that was seated behind his desk.

"Excuse me," Tony announced, "we're looking for the building manager."

"Oh, that's me! Hi, I'm Robert Hatfield; my friends call me 'Bob'," the lanky man said nervously as he turned his attention to them. "You, ah, you must be all Paula's family."

"They are," Tony said, pointing to his companions. "I worked with Paula."

"I'm D.J., Paula's mother, and this is my daughter, Stephanie," the Cassidy matriarch said, and shook Bob's proffered hand.

Bob then solemnly removed his Redskins ball cap and held it in front of his thin chest, revealing a balding head of wispy, graying hair. "May I just say, Mrs. Cassidy, how really sorry I am. I just about cried like a baby when I heard what happened."

His eyes were actually starting to tear up behind his thick frames as he spoke. "She was the perfect tenant. Never caused a lick of trouble. Never complained about anything; paid her rent on time...It's a terrible, terrible shame."

"Thank you, Bob. You're very kind to say that," D.J. said politely. "Paula spoke of you very kindly, too. She said you were very attentive to any problems in the building."

Bob gave a self-effacing 'aw shucks' look, and shuffled his feet. He sniffled a little and shoved his cap back on his head.

"Wait a minute..._You're_ 'Bob'?" Tony asked, a small frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. He looked like he was trying to wrap his mind around some conundrum.

"Uh-huh," Bob replied, surprised at Tony's query.

"So that, uh, red Ford Focus parked there...it's yours?"

"Yep. Any particular reason why you wanna know?"

"Oh, no, no," Tony answered, slipping into a jovial tone, "nothing. Just curious."

_So, this is the 'Bob' Paula was using to mess with me...that girl sure knew how to embellish. Very rich... private skybox seats for the Redskins... red Ferrari, yeah...right. Instead 'Bob' dresses like a slob, wears a tattered Redskins cap, and drives a red Ford Focus..._

"Here, let me take you all up to her apartment. I've got some boxes ready, just in case you wanted to get some packing done right now," Bob said, leading them towards the elevator.

They rode up in silence with Bob sneaking furtive glances at them all the way up, causing Tony to feel irrationally uncomfortable. He was relieved when they reached Paula's floor. Bob whipped out the keys and opened the door, letting the women in first.

They were immediately hit by the scent of rotting banana as they entered the apartment. It was a cloying odor that permeated the entire room.

"Oh! Something sure stinks. Let me take care of that," Bob said in dismay, hurrying into the kitchen to locate the source of the offending smell. On the counter top in the kitchen, they saw a bowl of overripe bananas, skins brown and mottled. Bob, however, checked the garbage bin.

"Oh yeah, this is the one. I'll be back." He grabbed the bag from the bin and beat a hasty exit.

The unpleasant smell still lingered, and D.J. decided to throw open one of the sliding doors leading onto the balcony. A hint of fresh air spilled into the room. Stevie stood silently by her mother's side as they looked out on the view through the open doors.

"I always said I'd come out one day and visit her," Stevie finally said. "She told me she had the space to put me up if I wanted to spend a vacation here. I thought that maybe this Summer I would actually take her up on that offer. We discussed how many things we could do for free, like concerts at the National Gallery of Art, or the Smithsonian..."

"Stevie," D.J. said comfortingly, slipping an arm around her shoulders.

"Now we never will," Stevie said despairingly, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

"Oh, honey..." D.J. gathered her daughter into her arms as she started sobbing in earnest.

Tony looked away from them uncomfortably. He wanted to ignore the burning sensation in his own eyes and the weight he felt pressing on his chest. He felt totally inadequate to deal with the grief he saw spilling out before him, so he let his eyes roam.

There had been a time, not so long ago, when he had really wanted to see the inside of Paula's apartment. She'd seen his, but they hadn't lasted long enough for the much-desired invitation into hers. Soon after the completion of her GITMO assignment had come the deployments on the _Kennedy, _which Tony knew certainly hadn't done much to bolster their tenuous relationship.

_Especially when you'd been pissed at Gibbs after the debacle of the exploding Commander Dornan, _Tony thought ruefully. _I just wish that pissed-off-ness hadn't extended to me, too..._

The living room was tidy, and tastefully decorated. The furniture wasn't expensive, but looked comfortable. Rightfully so, Tony mused. An NCIS agent might get an assignment to go anywhere at any time. _Why plunk down a load of cash on things if you weren't going to be around much to enjoy them, anyway?_ The irony of his words struck him, and he almost slapped himself for that callous thought.

Next to the oak entertainment center with television and combination VHS/DVD player, Tony looked over an assortment of movies and television series box sets. Stacked next to the DVDs was a rather eclectic music collection, including some Salsa recordings Tony decided must have been a remnant from her GITMO stint.

Bookshelves lined another one of the walls. They were filled with what Tony would describe as 'heavy' reading: Psychology texts and other official-looking tomes that Paula must have found handy during her post-graduate studies. He also spotted assorted novels easily recognizable by their best-seller list status, along with stacks of magazines and periodicals.

With a hint of amused interest, Tony spied a copy of '_Deep Six_' on the coffee table. Tony sauntered over and picked up the novel, noting that it was bookmarked about three-quarters through.

_She never finished it_, he thought with a pang of sadness. He flipped to the front inside flap, and saw that Paula must have had Tim sign it at some point in time.

It read: "_To Paula. Best wishes, Timothy McGee aka Thom E. Gemcity. P.S.: 'Special Agent Carla Presley' can be our little secret, okay?_"

_Hmm,_ Tony thought. He was going to have to corner the Probie and question him about that one...

Stevie's sniffles were dying down, and she excused herself in search of the bathroom.

The door to the apartment opened again, and in walked Bob Hatfield, sans offending garbage bag. He was instead lugging a stack of cardboard boxes that were ready to be assembled. "There," he said with a look of accomplishment, "that's better, huh? I'm so sorry I didn't think to check that trash before you all came up here. I feel so embarrassed."

"Because you didn't take out my daughter's smelly garbage?" D.J. said. "Don't be silly, Bob. I'm sure it's not in your job description."

"Oh, well, no..." Bob uttered, "but still...I should have realized that there would have been no one to, ah,...empty it...after what happened."

"It's _okay_, Bob," D.J. stressed. "I appreciate everything you've done for us. Thanks for the boxes."

"Where do you want to start?" Tony asked, suddenly feeling uncomfortable at the notion he'd be helping Paula's family go through her personal belongings.

"I think it would be best for me and Stevie to tackle Paula's room and sort through clothes and such. See what we can donate to Goodwill or the Salvation Army. It's what she would have wanted. Um, why don't you and Bob start packing away the stuff here in the living room? Books, CDs, and so forth?"

"Sure," Tony said agreeably.

"Later I could use your strength to get the heavier pieces of furniture and electronics stacked somewhere, just to make the movers' job easier."

Both men set to work, and D.J. headed inside.

Tony and Bob had just finished piling all the books from one of the shelves when he heard D.J. call out to him.

"Agent DiNozzo! Could you come in here, please?"

Tony followed the sound of D.J.'s voice down a hall and into a room he assumed was Paula's. He saw Stevie standing somewhat dumbfounded at the head of the queen-sized bed that was partially stripped of its sheets. He followed her gaze to what he recognized as a Beretta PX4 Storm pistol.

"What should we do with it?" D.J. asked, stressing the 'it', as if they were dealing with a live, poisonous snake.

Tony walked up to the weapon and carefully handled it. He checked the magazine and saw it was fully loaded with the standard 17 rounds of 9mm ammo.

"I can't believe she _slept_ with a loaded gun, right there under her pillow," Stevie said with a shudder. "I mean, I thought she was joking when she told me she did."

"It's not her service piece," Tony said, "she probably used it for the sake of protection. See if she kept a gun lock around here someplace."

D.J. started rooting around drawers, and managed to find a small, steel device with a built-in tumbler combination and key lock. "Is this what you're looking for?"

"Trigger lock," Tony said, taking it from her. "Yeah, thanks."

He put the lock in place, and saw the looks of relief on the faces of D.J. and Stevie.

"If you like, I can see that it's taken care of," Tony said. "Have it decommissioned, or something."

"Would you?" D.J. asked. "I'd really appreciate it."

Tony nodded his reply.

"Thank you," D.J. said gratefully.

"I don't understand it," Stevie spoke up.

"What don't you understand?" Tony questioned.

"I don't understand why Paula didn't just _shoot_ the son of a bitch!" Stevie stamped her foot. "Why did she have to tackle him? She had a gun; why didn't she use it?"

"Because she couldn't have been sure he didn't have a 'dead man's switch'," Tony gently replied. "Paula did exactly what I'd have done, Stevie. Unfortunately, I was just too far away. That guy would have blown us _all_ to kingdom come if we'd drawn our weapons on him. That's what he'd come to do; that's what he would have accomplished if Paula had tried to shoot him. Instead, she did the right thing; the heroic thing."

He saw the strain and anger start to slowly drain away from Stevie's face and, almost like a ripple, through her body as her shoulders dropped and her posture became more relaxed.

"I just _miss_ her," Stevie said with a slight shake of her head.

"We all do," Tony said warmly. He turned to leave, Beretta safely locked and pointed downwards. He was almost out of the room when a random thought suddenly popped into his head. He tried to conceal his chuckle, but was unsuccessful when D.J. asked him what he found so amusing.

Tony looked down at the pistol and couldn't help but smile, in spite of himself. "I finally realize the meaning of the little rumor I once heard that Paula liked sleeping with Italians..."

***

Gibbs poured a liberal amount of bourbon into his mug. He took a sip and sat down, looking over his boat-in-progress.

Presently, there was the sound of footfalls on the staircase.

"I heard you had another close call, Gunny," came a familiar voice.

"Hey, Hol," Gibbs said, acknowledging Colonel Mann's arrival.

She sat down next to him on a sawhorse. After a few beats of silence, she said: "I know you don't talk about these things, Jethro, but I need to say that I am relieved beyond belief that you made it out of there alive on Friday."

Gibbs nodded. "Yup." He took another swig and kept his eyes on the boat.

"I also heard you lost another agent: Paula Cassidy...Did you know her well?"

"Not '_well_', but yeah, I worked with her a few times in the past on some cases."

"They're calling her a hero all over the news," Hollis said.

"Well, she did save six lives at the expense of her own on Friday by tackling that damned terrorist," Gibbs said matter-of-factly, eyeing his companion. "Including mine and Agent DiNozzo's."

Hollis nodded. "Yes, I read that in the _Post_. It's all any of the newspapers and ZNN reporters seem to want to talk about at the moment. Jethro, this home-grown threat... should we be concerned about more suicide bombings in our own country?"

Gibbs shrugged. "Why don't you ask Homeland Security?"

"Don't get smart with me," Hollis replied, giving him a playful whack on his shoulder.

"As far as NCIS is concerned, Paula took out the last person responsible for the current bombings. It was her team that had been killed in the first bombing, a week ago Sunday."

"So, I don't have to be worried that some extremist group has marked NCIS Special Agents for death..." Hollis said, searching his face for some kind of reassurance.

He physically turned to look at her this time. Her face was lightly creased with lines of genuine worry.

"No, Hol..." his tone softened, "that threat is finished."

She nodded, satisfied by his words. "You know," she said, voice faltering slightly, "when I heard on Friday there'd been another bombing, and that an NCIS Special Agent that had been killed...for a moment, I was afraid..."

"Hey," Gibbs said, placing a thumb and forefinger under her chin.

"...And _then_ when I heard it was a woman, and I knew it wasn't you...I was so thankful. God help me, I was _glad_ it was a woman, because it meant _you_ were alive and safe."

Gibbs nodded in understanding. He cupped the side of her face in his hand. "It's not my time. Not yet."

Hollis leaned in closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder as he embraced her. They remained silent for several minutes.

"What was she like?" Hollis asked, not moving from her position.

"Paula Cassidy?" Gibbs asked.

He felt Hollis nodding in reply.

"Determined to nail the bastards responsible for killing her men," he answered truthfully. "She wasn't somebody _I _would have wanted on my team, but-"

"Why not?" Hollis queried in surprise. "The woman saved your life, Jethro. If you ask me, that's exactly the kind of person I would have wanted on my team, watching my back..."

Gibbs sighed. She was striking at a personal prejudice he really didn't want to expose, but decided it didn't really matter now. "She would have been too much of a distraction for another agent of mine." His thoughts flew back to their first meeting at GITMO.

_Kate couldn't understand why I had a problem with you, Paula...that two agents pursuing a relationship was a big mistake...that it would never work out...Maybe it's finally occurred to Tony. Maybe he understands now. _

"A 'distraction'?" Hollis repeated.

"It's a long story," Gibbs said dismissively, thinking how every time Paula and Tony worked together, she always found some way to get under his skin...until this last time...

_See, Tony? It wouldn't have worked out. Do you think you could have handled losing someone you loved like _that_? And you, Paula, you allowed yourself to be shaken too easily. You always held yourself responsible for things that were far beyond your control. _

"Paula was a capable agent," Gibbs said tactfully, "obviously good enough to head her own team of agents. They don't just hand that sort of plumb assignment to anybody. She probably would have gone far in this agency."

"Just never with your team," Hollis said.

"You know the last words she ever said? _'I know I screwed up'_," Gibbs recounted. "She was referring to a shootout that went sour earlier last week. Ended up we killed a suspect in the bombing case...She'd spooked the guy, but he would probably have rabbited anyway. What kind of last words are '_I know I screwed up_'?"

"The kind that come from someone willing to see her faults and willing to admit it when she's made a mistake," Hollis answered his rhetorical question. "I know, it's close to violating your 'never apologize because it's a sign of weakness' rule. But some people live their lives by a different set of rules, Jethro."

Gibbs nodded as he considered her words, but silently added: _And some people die by them, too_.

_***_

_One week later_

Tony arrived at the hospital and headed to the bank of chairs in the waiting area. Jeanne's shift would be over soon, so he sat and idly pulled at the magazines on the low table in front of him. They were mostly Reader's Digests, old Good Housekeeping and some Sports Illustrated issues.

_Too bad they wouldn't have the swimsuit issues_, he thought with amusement. Not that he would have actually looked at them, he realized with a surprised start. Jeanne had changed that.

His breath caught in his throat when he uncovered a very recent _TIME _magazine. He could not tear his eyes away from the cover story headline and accompanying images. A candid black-and-white photo of a smiling Paula Cassidy dominated most of the front, along with smaller pictures of Richard Hall and James Nelson. With weary eyes unwilling to rehash the tragic events, he still couldn't avert his glance from the background image: a shot of the explosion that had killed Rick and Jim. Somewhere along the line he vaguely remembered that some tourist had actually been snapping off random pictures that Sunday morning, and had incredibly managed to capture the blast on film.

_'Ultimate Sacrifice'_, the main headline went, '_Suicide bombings on U.S. soil claim the lives of three Federal Agents...and what's being done to make sure it never happens again.'_

The upper banner of the issue announced several other related topics being discussed inside the magazine: 'The War on Terror: _Are We Winning?_' and one that caused Tony to raise his eyebrows: '_Naval Criminal Investigative Service: Little-known Federal Agency Grows Up Fast in Wake of Recent Attacks'. _

The last headline made Tony wonder a little about irresponsible journalism, but in his heart he felt that it was an honest question that deserved to be asked. '_The Face of Islam in America: Are the Mullahs in Control?'_

Tony figured he'd leave such debates to the experts. A close ally and friend was dead because Jamal Malik allowed an extreme system of belief to influence his actions. Tony was only thankful that someone like Abdul Wahid had survived. In spite of Malik's betrayal to the cause, Wahid was now more determined than ever to spread the word of peace through his chapter of the Muslim Coalition for Peace. He'd even spoken at the memorial service that had been held in honour of Paula, Rick, Jim and Yahzeed the previous Wednesday. Many in the vast crowds in attendance had been moved to tears by Wahid's powerful and heartfelt speech.

"Hey, Tony!"

Tony looked up and saw Jeanne smiling down at him. She was still wearing the pink scrubs she'd had on all day, and she looked weary after her shift. But she still looked beautiful to him. He returned her smile and self-consciously turned the _TIME _magazine up-side down on the table.

"Hi, Jeanne," he said, as he stood to greet her. He kissed her lightly on the lips.

"Mmm...That was nice. But I know you can do better," she whispered seductively.

"Of course," Tony matched her tone. "But my best isn't supposed to be displayed for public consumption."

Jeanne's eyes sparkled, and she bit back a giggle.

Tony brought his hands to her face. "Have I told you lately that I love you?"

Jeanne sent her eyes furtively to look somewhere up at the ceiling, as if she were concentrating intently. "I think you told me at lunch today when you called, and this morning, when you called, and last night, when you called..."

"Oh," Tony said with a furrowed brow, pretending to be deep in thought. "Those times seem like _ages_ ago to me."

Jeanne suppressed another giggle.

Tony looked at his watch. "It's just after midnight," he said. "I think you've waited long enough. Jeanne Benoit, _I love you_."

"I love you, too, Tony DiNardo," she said contentedly, leaning into him and encircling his waist with her arms.

Tony felt a twinge of discomfort at her use of his alias. Yes, he'd admitted he loved her, and it had satisfied her because it was the truth. But the nagging worry that it would all be ruined someday - that his cover would somehow be blown, or that the charade would all come crashing down like a house of cards - started to creep back into the corners of his consciousness. For the thousandth time, Tony cursed this blasted undercover mission, and cursed his powerlessness. He wasn't _supposed_ to fall in love with her; he was only supposed to pretend.

As he stood holding Jeanne, he thought again about Paula's words. He'd just come from an informal gathering of agents paying tribute to Paula at some LEO hang-out he'd never before stepped foot in. He was struck by the memory of the tribute wall, full of pictures of those lost in the line of duty. Life really was too short, he thought. And he'd be damned if he was going to let some mission interfere with his happiness with the woman he loved.

***

There wasn't much of a crowd by the time Gibbs arrived. He scanned the dim interior of the bar for familiar faces. Tony, at least, had mentioned he'd be coming, but he didn't see the younger man there.

"Gibbs! You're late," a familiar voice rang out.

"Hey, Stan," Gibbs said, breaking into a smile. He shook Agent Burley's hand.

"You've sort of missed everyone," Stan said in mock reproach, as Gibbs asked for a bourbon at the bar.

"I got enough of the crowds with the memorial service last week."

Stan gave a sympathetic nod. "Yeah, I guess so." He motioned towards the tribute wall to their right, reserved for photographs of the honored dead among law enforcement officers. There was a newly-hung one of Paula.

"I used to meet up with her here, on occasion. I figure she deserves a place on that wall, and, well...since she no longer has a team to do this for her, I just felt it was the least I could do."

Gibbs' drink arrived, and Stan touched his nearly-empty beer mug to the bourbon glass. "To Paula," he said.

"To Paula," Gibbs repeated the toast, and took a long swallow. Stan drained the rest of his drink.

"You were there when it happened, right?" Stan asked.

"Yep," Gibbs responded.

"I'm just trying to understand it all," Stan murmured, shaking his head. "When we lose an agent like that, it just makes you sort of second-guess everything...makes you wonder 'could that have been me?' and 'would I have done the same thing?' It's very sobering..."

"We all know what can happen on any given day in this job, Stan. Those are the risks we take. Asking yourself what you would or wouldn't have done in the same situation won't change the fact that it _happened_, and that it _wasn't_ you."

Stan nodded. "You're right...you're right." He expelled a breath. "I'm just really sorry that this time it had to be Paula."

"Paula knew the risks."

"Somehow, that doesn't really make it any easier for us to understand," Stan said somberly. He placed his empty mug on the counter. "It was good to see you again, 'Boss'; I gotta head out. Take care of yourself, okay?"

"You too, Stan," Gibbs said, clasping the other man's hand in a firm handshake.

He watched Stan leave, and then slowly made his way closer to the tribute wall. He fixed his eyes on the framed picture of Paula, neon lights reflecting off the surface of the glass. Gibbs recognized the image from her personnel file, the same one he'd seen when they were en route to Cuba in the Gulf Stream jet that Tony had been raving about.

With a heavy sigh, he thought about the day the previous week that he'd met D.J. Cassidy, and what she'd revealed about Paula's motivations for becoming an NCIS agent. A letter from Paula, neatly hand-written, had arrived that same day, its delivery delayed by the Easter holiday. It had been a small shock seeing it on his desk when he'd arrived that morning, bearing her name and return address. He hadn't opened it until tonight. Gibbs now pulled the folded letter from his jacket pocket and re-read the contents:

_'I've never thanked you, Agent Gibbs, for inspiring my career choice. In spite of our differences, I'll never forget the role you've played. I don't know what the future will bring, but recent events have led me to take action. I truly believe life is too short not to tell people the things you ought to tell them while you still can. _

_'You see, if not for your dogged determination to apprehend Kyle Boone so many years ago, I honestly don't know what I'd be doing with my life today. Your success in that case prompted me to pursue my career with NCIS._

_'The loss of my team notwithstanding, this is the only job I will ever want to do. I'll probably always be a screw-up in your eyes, but I have, and always will, love being in the service of the men and women of the United States Navy. _

_'Sincerely,_

_Special Agent Paula Cassidy'_

Gibbs re-folded the letter. He was still unsure how he ought to react to this revelation. Hadn't known from even when D.J. had informed him that he'd been the inspiration behind Paula's career choice. He refused, however, to sink into the self-pitying position of thinking that if it weren't for him, Paula would somehow still be alive. If he could convince people like Tony, Abby, and Stan of personal culpability and personal choice, then he was going to accept his own advice on the matter.

He knew Jenny was probably flying back right now from California, returning from Paula's funeral in Simi Valley. Since they all couldn't attend, the agents that had wanted their own personal tribute had decided on this bar, at Agent Burley's suggestion.

Gibbs reached out and carefully lifted Paula's framed photo from the wall. He removed the cardboard backing and tucked the letter she'd sent him behind the picture. He replaced the backing, re-hung the frame, then took a step back to see if everything was level. Satisfied that it was, Gibbs took one last, long look at the picture.

"You weren't a screw-up, Paula," he said softly, then turned and left the bar.

**END**

**A/N: My thanks to the lovely individuals who actually took the time to read through this. I hope you were entertained.  
**


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